


Harry Potter and the 'superhero' origin story

by gooseontheloose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Harry Potter Never Went to Hogwarts, Homophobia, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, POC Harry Potter, Romance, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 70,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24413623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseontheloose/pseuds/gooseontheloose
Summary: Harry Evans is a perfectly normal sixteen year old, thank you very much. Except that... he isn't. Not by anyone's standards. (Not when he can make things move with his mind). He tries not to let it bother him, but he's doing increasingly freakish things, and the world around him is getting stranger and stranger. People are following him, and speaking in metaphors, and somehow knowing his name. It's unnerving.He wonders when his life became this much of a fever dream.Or... Harry Potter somehow slipped under the radar, and now, 5 years after that first Hogwarts letter was sent out, they've finally found him. The world is darker, and more hopeless, and the Harry Potter they get seems like the furthest thing from a beacon of light. He's angry and reckless and world worn. But he's their only hope: the saviour of the Wizarding World. If only he gave a shit.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1428
Kudos: 1684
Collections: Lady Bibliophile's Collection of Incredible Fanfiction





	1. Everyone looks fit in capes

Harry Evans is perfectly normal thank you very much. He knows that the people around him would tend to disagree.

The teachers at school would probably say that only getting 5 GCSEs isn’t the textbook definition of normal (then they’d probably make some cutting remark that maybe he would’ve passed his exams if he’d so much as bothered to open a textbook), but it’s not his fault that his brain’s the wrong shape for school. The kids down at the skate park would say that the way he flies up and down the ramps, staying airborne for longer than he technically should, never seems to slip or scuff or fall, isn’t quite right, doesn’t quite make sense. His ‘friends’ (the few that still stick around) would contemplate the way he makes and breaks things, graffiti can in hand, sparks at his fingertip, would secretly ask themselves who (or what) Harry Evans really is, (but they don’t even know the half of it). The staff at the latest group home would shrug, secretly wondering if anyone else notices how every time Harry enters the room, the air tastes of static. How he has that glint of wrongness in his bright green eyes. They talk behind their hands about the strange incidences that surround him, the way he’s bounced around for years, never quite seeming to stick. But at the end of the day, they brush it off, because for all his quirks, Harry is a good kid, one who mostly sticks to curfew, who’s only been arrested once (or twice), and who’s technically completed secondary school (in that he showed up to exams).  
They pity him. He knows they do. After all, it isn’t his fault that soon he’ll age out of the system, and be laid bare to the world, find out that he isn’t enough. A poor, underqualified, non-white kid from inner city London? It isn’t his fault that soon enough the world is going to eat him alive.

So Harry Evans would like to believe that he’s perfectly normal thank you very much. He really would. Maybe if everyone else thinks it, then he’ll wake up some day and it’ll be true. He tries (and fails) to be less jagged, to fit in better. He doesn’t like to think about it for longer than a few minutes, just like he doesn’t like to think about the future, about how he’s destined for nothing in particular, how he’s not really headed anywhere, how he’s sleepwalking through life (and he doesn’t know how to wake up). He doesn’t like to think about how he’s a freak who is able to do distinctly freakish things, and that his life, his whole identity, is about as far from normal as it gets. Thoughts like that can get dark (something he knows all too well). And besides, pretending is much easier. It’s got him this far.

* * *

»»»

When Albus suggested leaving the child with his living family, his muggle family, McGonagall wanted to scream, wanted to strike that man where he stood. So much grief, so much loss had occurred that night, and then Albus wanted to yank any hope, any chance of redemption, from her, from everyone. He made points about blood magic, about protection, and protection was what the boy needed. She made points about leaving a biracial baby with his estranged, emotionally distant family (who were more than a little racist). Albus didn’t care to hear it.

‘All that matters is that Harry is safe’ he said.

She wondered, even then, if he truly knew what that word meant. But she could feel the weariness, deep in her bones, and all she could think of was how it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. The teacher wasn’t supposed to outlive the student. She let him leave Harry on that doorstep, because it made sense. It may not have been the right thing to do, but it made sense.

On Harry Potter’s 11th birthday, the letter was returned, unopened. It wasn’t abnormal, especially for muggleborn students, for more than one letter to have to be sent before the message got through. She wished she’d had that prickling feeling of wrongness, she wished she’d known something wasn’t quite right. In fact, it wasn’t until she penned the 75th letter that Albus finally agreed to let them pay the Dursley’s a visit.

‘It’s probably nothing’ he said, ‘there’s probably a perfectly normal explanation’.

As Petunia closed the door in their faces, no apology in her eyes, no feeling at all for the bombshell she’d just dropped on them, McGonagall felt herself seething.  
_A perfectly normal explanation._ If the fact that Harry Potter had not lived with them since he was four years old could be classed as normal. If the fact that they spent weeks, which became months, which became years, trying to track Harry down, only to have to face up to the fact that he was lost. No beacon of hope in the darkness. No boy who lived. They lost him. He was out there somewhere (or he was dead), and they had no way of knowing where.

And as the wizarding world descended further into the dark, into the chaos, McGonagall wondered if leaving him on that step that day may have lost them the war.

_»»»_

* * *

Harry keeps dreaming of fire. He’s not quite sure what it means, and he’s not about to start contemplating it (it’s not as if he’s writing a dream journal, or anything else equally as wet, and it’s not as if he thinks everything has a meaning, or an outward connection). It’s just… strange.

_He dreams of flames, he dreams that he’s not only in the flames, he is the flames. He can feel them and smell them and taste them, dancing around him, swallowing him down then spitting him back up. It burns him and numbs him until he feels like his insides are melted and he can’t quite see straight. Then there’s this falling feeling and suddenly everything is green. The green fills his body and it’s blindingly bright, bursting out of every pore in his body, leaving his raw and open, battered and bruised. And somewhere, far away and simultaneously right behind him, a woman screams._

He always wakes up at that point, his face wet with tears (that’s another reason he doesn’t like to think about it or talk about it. Harry Evans is not a crier, and some random dream lady wailing does not change that).  
The third reason he doesn’t want to dwell on his increasingly unsettling recurring dream (nightmare), is Aman. What Aman will say, what Aman will think. He’s already freakish enough without having weird nightmare hell dreams to go with it.

“God Evans, what’s gotten into you? What’re you acting so droopy for?” Aman has this oddly insulting way of showing he cares.

“I keep having this weird dream” (he shouldn’t have brought it up. If he wasn’t so high right now he probably wouldn’t have).

Aman is instantly interested (of course he is, he believes in the universe and it’s interconnectedness and all of that shit), “What’s the dream about? Set it up for me!”

“Nevermind.” Harry goes to sit up, to shift his head from Aman’s chest, to untangle their limbs.

“Don’t be such a tease!” Aman flips them over so he’s on top of Harry, pinning him down. “Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!” he begins to chant.

Harry rolls his eyes but he has this half smirk on his face. “Okay fine. It’s where I’m smoking with my boyfriend and he’s being really annoying, like really, really annoying, he keeps sitting on top of me and nagging me, so I punch him right in the nose and he dies of blood-loss”

Aman sighs dramatically, “Sounds like your subconscious is trying to say that you’re a prick and your classically handsome, incredibly charismatic boyfriend isn’t going to let you have any of his mum’s baklava anymore.”

Then it’s Harry’s turn to gasp affrontedly. “You wouldn’t” he breathes, injecting as much upset into his tone as possible. “Fine! Stop holding the baklava hostage and I’ll tell you about my stupid dream.”

“Works for me!”

“Okay, so like, it’s like, I’m on fire, but I also am the fire, then it’s green and this woman shouts.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes that’s it.” Harry’s tone comes off a lot more bitter and resentful than he intended.

Aman’s face scrunches up, as he searches for the deeper meaning, (the deep universal truth that Harry’s subconscious is so clearly trying to convey, the truth which obviously only Aman can decipher)  
“Oh my God! I’ve got it!” his eyes are so wide and bright, and he looks so delighted that Harry almost forgets that he doesn’t want to talk about this stupid dream, doesn’t want to make this not thing into a thing. Delighted is a good look on Aman.  
“It’s your origin story!”  
Harry groans, instantly deflating and wishing more than anything that Aman would quit with the whole “Harry Evans is a secret superhero” crap.

“Come on Evans, use your head for a minute! Where were you left when you were four years old?”

Harry glares at him, silently wishing he hadn’t shared that tale of childhood abandonment. “Outside a fire station” he grumbles

“A fire station, flames, how are you not making this connection? I mean, getting left outside a fire station?! That’s like the kind of shit that would happen to bloody superman”

“Aman you have not idea how much willpower it is taking me not to thump you right now.”

Aman continues with his tirade as if Harry never spoke. “Come on! Origin story plus superpowers? If you ask me” (he didn’t), “You’re a hero in the making! That’s what this dream is trying to tell you.”

Harry _really_ wants to thump Aman right now. Aman who knows how much Harry hates the H-word, hates when his ‘abilities’ get called superpowers, and yet he does it anyway.

But then Aman gives him that lopsided smile, and attempts to smooth his birdsnest of hair. “Plus, you’d look really fit in a cape.”

“Aman, come on now. Everyone looks fit in capes.”

“Yeah, but you’d look _really_ fit.”

“Right. And if I’m a superhero, then would that make you my hot one dimensional love interest who I save from mortal peril?” Harry teases.

Aman throws back his head and laughs, despite the fact that it wasn’t that funny.

“Do I take that as a yes… or?”

“Take it however you want.” Aman smirks, “Come on then superman, show me what you’re made of.”

Harry complies.

With a flick of his fingers, Aman’s body weight is no longer resting on him. Slowly, slowly Harry lifts him up in the air, until the top of his head is almost scraping the ceiling. Then Harry spins him around, sending him floating to each corner of the room, changing his direction at last minute. Aman whoops and cheers, breathlessly exclaiming that it ‘feels like he’s flying’. And Harry rolls his eyes, regretting that Aman’s room isn’t a little bigger, that they can’t do this outside because of the whole living in a densely populated city and Aman is fucking flying (well, it’s more like as if he’s a puppet being jerked around by invisible strings) thing. For the grand finale he leaves Aman suspended above him, and then focuses hard. The light flickers slightly as Harry uses his _superpowers_ (the word still makes him uncomfortable), to make the contents of Aman’s overflowing rubbish bin, and the off-colour stain in the middle of his carpet vanish.

“Ta-da!”

“Why when I ask you to show off your powers do you always use them to clean my room?” Aman wonders aloud.

“I’m so glad you asked! For my next trick, I’m going to transform you into someone who isn’t a slob!”

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s no way I’m shagging a guy who doesn’t even know how to empty a bin”

Aman rolls his eyes, then leans down and kisses him. The second Aman’s lips are on his, everything from weird dreams, to freakish superpowers melts away, and it’s just the two of them. Just the two of them left in the world, and in that exact moment, Harry is normal.


	2. Bad boy image

“And where have you been?”

Mr Holtwood’s doing that thing again where he pretends to care. Or maybe he does care, Harry isn’t really sure how to tell the difference. He doesn’t have much experience of the whole ‘adults actually giving a shit’ thing. Maybe it won’t last. Holtwood is pretty new, so there’s plenty of time for things to go downhill.

“What does it matter?” He should be in a good mood after seeing Aman. He usually is. Aman lets him be softer, lets him be warmer. He likes who he is around Aman. He likes the person he’s being right now slightly less.

“We were worried about you.”

“I’m not sure why. Age I’m at? I’d just be another runaway, you guys probably wouldn’t even get into that much trouble.”

“It’s not--” Mr Holtwood squeezes the bridge of his nose, he does this every time he’s frustrated, and he’s frustrated with Harry quite a bit. “It’s not about us getting in trouble, it’s about you being safe.”

“Right.” Says Harry incredulously. He wanders over to the fridge and grabs a handful of shredded cheese straight out of the bag. Mr Holtwood scoffs slightly, but doesn’t move to correct him. “Well don’t worry, I stayed safe… I even made him wear a condom.”

It takes Mr Holtwood a moment to process Harry’s words, but when he does, he goes a little red and stammers slightly, clearly unsure what the right thing to respond is. Harry’s good at this, making people feel uncomfortable. This is his real superpower.

He smirks. “Good chat big man! I’m heading upstairs, I’ve proper tired myself out.”

****

Harry doesn’t sleep that night. He keeps thinking of the stupid origin story thing, and how there is definitely something more than a little wrong with him. It started out small, with a foreign feeling bubbling beneath his skin, something electric, something slightly wild and untameable. Before the whole ‘actual superpowers’ thing came along, there were still strange events, unexplainable occurrences that followed him, ever since he was little. Things that couldn’t quite be rationally explained.

Once he was unsupervised at the tube station, playing a game where he balanced along the edge of the platform as if it was a tightrope, walking heel to toe, and he slipped, or stumbled, and suddenly he was on the tracks. He remembers that there was a train hurtling towards him, with blindingly bright lights. And then suddenly, he was back on the platform, standing well behind the yellow line, unscathed and seemingly unaffected. The only person who saw was an old woman. Harry remembers the way her jaw went slightly slack as she stared him down. He decided to walk the rest of the way home that day.

It was the small things as well, the little puzzle pieces which weren’t avoiding certain death, or sending another person flying around the room using only your mind. The way he never seemed to retain bruises, or the fact that on more than one occasion, his hair had grown back from a buzzcut overnight (maybe his body knew that skinhead wasn’t such a good look on him). All of the little puzzle pieces add up to something. The issue is that Harry isn’t quite sure what. 

As he contemplates, he makes his way through the rest of the baccy pack, blowing rings of smoke into the night, twisting the tendrils into different shapes. His favourite is the python, which flicks it’s tongue at him before dissipating into the darkness.  
The snake's smoke eyes made him smile for a moment, but they leave a hollow pit inside him. They make him wonder what the actual fuck is wrong with him, like why he’s like this. Why he can’t seem to help himself from doing weird shit all of the time. Maybe the final puzzle piece in this whole mess is the fact that he can’t help himself from being a freak all of the time. As he rolls the last fag, he shakes it off, lets the feeling of discontent vanish along with the smoke into the night air. It’s not worth dwelling on. It’s not worth wallowing in this self hating identity crisis bullshit. He has to act normal, that’s his schtick. Act normal, and soon enough it will come true.

****

Before morning comes, he decides to go skating again (anything to clear his head).

“Where are you going?” asks Jay, the only other boy his age in the home, as he slips into the kitchen.

“Out.” He replies, as if it wasn’t already obvious. He doesn’t ask what Jay’s doing up at this hour. He knows he’s not the only person to suffer from dreams they’d rather forget. “Your roots are growing out” he observes instead. “You should really take better care of yourself.”

Jay snorts “Don’t be salty just because you no hair dye would work on that monstrosity”

“Why would I be jealous of the guy who’s hair is- what was the colour called again?” Harry pauses for effect, “Plum perfection and Lilac Crush?”

“Because I look fucking sick.”

Harry can only nod in response to that. It does look fucking sick. He decides not to mention the 3 full packs of bleach that he used on his own, only to wake up the next day with black hair again.

“God”, Jay’s nose wrinkles, “you smell like an ashtray”.

“Well I can’t not smoke! It’s an essential for my bad boy image”

“Yeah, all the gangsters have mouth and throat cancer” Jay retorts. He’s given up saying things like this with any real malice, he’s probably realised that it won’t make any difference. Harry isn’t the kind who will be told what to do.

“Did I say gangster? Or did I say bad boy?”

“I’m gonna regret asking this, but what exactly is the difference?”

“The difference?!” Harry barks out a laugh, “The difference is that I’m handsome and witty and charming and popular, with a tormented past and just enough brooding in there to make me interesting”

Jay rolls his eyes, “I hate you so, so much”

“What? I’m right….”

“You’re also one of the most conceited people I’ve ever met”

“So what? I have good reason to be.”

Jay cuts across him “Didn’t you say you were going out?”

“Come on Jay-Jay, stroke my ego a little! Tell me I’m handsome”

“I thought lying was wrong”

“Fuck you mate”

“You wish”

That last comment makes Harry laugh, and Jay even cracks a smile. It makes Harry feel a little better, knowing there are people who like him, or at least tolerate him. He says his goodbyes, and sets off, doing his best to ignore the thin drizzle that’ll leave him soaked through to the bone soon enough. He’d rather get hypothermia than spend another day cooped up in his room, smoking out of the window and spiralling.

  
  
He figures he might see Aman at the ramps, but he won’t be too upset if he doesn’t (okay, maybe he will, but it’s better to be detached, not make any ties that he’ll later have to cut). He’s never been too great at the whole ‘having friends thing’. Besides, it’s better not to rely on people. They tend to leave. They tend to let you down. Too many people have disappointed him. (Including himself). There he goes, spiralling again. God he really needs to get a hobby.

* * *

_Remus visits the graveyard as often as he can. He lays flowers next to the stones, and tells a few stories, a few anecdotes, pretending that the people in the ground below him are still alive, standing at his side and listening, rather than being gone for good, never coming back._

_Someone erected a third stone, in between the graves of his parents. ‘Harry James Potter” it reads, with a lightning bolt carved below. That’s the grave that makes him the saddest, makes him the angriest. Because he’s had 15 years of processing the whole ‘my best friends are dead’ thing, but only 5 years of the ‘their son is missing (probably dead or we’d have tracked him down by now) and if I’d stepped in sooner rather than wallowing in self pity for a decade, then maybe things would be different’ thing._

_The muggles give him strange looks, pointedly glaring at the ‘no dogs allowed’ sign. He wonders if visiting the dead with a wanted mass murderer would illicit the same response, or whether the large black dog form is a preferable graveyard companion._

_He misses James, he misses Lily, he misses Harry (even though he knows that the Harry he remembers, the Harry who zoomed around the house on his toy broomstick and screamed with laughter, doesn’t exist. He misses his idea of what Harry could be (could have been), and he misses the fact that he never got to know. Never got the meet the boy who even as a baby looked strikingly like his father, but had his mother’s eyes)._


	3. His own kind of brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short one!  
> Trigger warning for homophobia/ violence

It’s late. The sun hangs low in the sky, the stars will probably be out soon (not that they’d be able to even see them with all the bloody pollution). It’s late and they shouldn’t still be out. It’s like an unwritten rule. When it gets to be this dark, him and Aman can’t be out, not together. When night falls, the bigots get braver, and Harry still hasn’t quite figured out how to be his own kind of brave.

Yes it’s late, but they’re underneath the skate ramp, and Aman’s lips feel so good, and he doesn’t much fancy going home yet, facing another stilted conversation with Mr Holtwood, spending hours on end alone with his thoughts. So he stays.

He didn’t know it was going to happen. How could he know. Maybe his brain’s just getting all jumbled (because that’s a thing that happens with traumatic events, right?). He could’ve sworn that before the men even came, all he was thinking about was how much it was going to hurt if the wrong kind of people caught them. And that’s not a normal thing to be thinking. The whole not being out after dark thing was a precaution, like how Mr Holtwood would triple check that he’d locked the door (as if any of them had anything worth breaking in for). It wasn’t a real, tangible thing. It wasn’t real, until it was. 

He doesn’t remember it very clearly. It’s like he’s watching it back through a shattered pane of glass, with details jagged and missing and out of place. One moment he was kissing Aman, sitting all tangled up with Aman, breathing him in. The next moment, there was shouting and yelling and sneering. A man’s voice. More than one man’s voice. The words were clipped and slurred and jumbled together, and he couldn’t quite figure out exactly what was going on, but he knew that it was nothing good.

There were hands on his arms brutal and bruising, dragging him out. He’s shorter than most, but he has an unexpected wirey strength. Still, he couldn’t fight them off. And there were so many, grabbing at him, yanking him around. It made him feel weightless, like a paper doll, thrashing in the wind. He wondered if this was what ‘flying’ felt like to Aman, the hands being the invisible strings holding him up.   
That thought made him panic. Made him suddenly so aware that he couldn’t see Aman, couldn’t feel Aman.

The men continued to spit words at them, harsh and ugly, slurs cutting into him like barbs. He wasn’t sure why the word ‘freak’ was the one that bothered him the most. Probably because it was the closest to the truth.

They didn’t stick to just taunting words for long. The queer bashing clearly had to be a literal thing. The first hit left him woozy. Breathless and broken, a fist between the ribs, punishing him for being what he is. The second left him on the floor, forced a strangled cry from his throat. More hits rained down, and Harry couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

But then he heard a rasping voice, somehow rising above the low monotone buzz of hatred that the rest of the voices had blurred into. “Evans…”  
It was a prayer, it was a plea.

It was broken and bloody and hurt. Aman was broken and bloody and hurt. Harry was broken and bloody and hurt. And for what? What did either of them do to deserve this?

It uncoiled something in Harry, something primal and vengeful. Something he’d never felt in his entire life. He was so full of rage that he felt like he was on fire. No. It felt like he was the fire. There was smoke in his lungs, and his body was bubbling and melting like magma. It was brutal and visceral, and he’d never been that angry in his entire life. It felt like it was filling him: consuming him. Like his anger was becoming him, and he was becoming his anger. Then a strange sort of calm settled over him. A dangerous clarity. Like something inside him knew exactly what to do (even if he himself didn’t yet know). And with that clarity, there was light, bursting out of him, blindingly green. It erupted from his body, swallowing everyone and everything. 

The darkness that followed left Harry smouldering, delicate as a pile of ash.   
The whole thing already felt like a bad dream, a memory from a million years ago. Even as it happened, it felt like he was watching it on a screen, like it wasn’t being done to him at all. Like he wasn’t even real.

He’s shaking, his whole body is trembling. From fear, from cold, from exhaustion. Then, a few metres away from him, Aman gasps. He gasps like they do in movies when someone’s just performed CPR or rescued them from drowning (why does Harry feel like he’s drowning?)

Aman’s struggling to his feet, he’s offering his hand to Harry, wincing slightly at the movement. Harry feels so far away. Why does he feel so far away? If he didn’t feel like he was underwater right now, he’d probably be able to do something to stop Aman from hurting, take the pained grimace from his face. He’s never fixed anyone’s injuries other than his own before, but right now he seems to more capable of things than he ever imagined.   
Aman’s nose is trickling blood, and Harry watches it morbidly as it drip drip drips onto the dusty ground. He accepts the offered hand, lets himself be hoisted up.   
The two boys hobble away, they hobble home. Neither mention the pain, or the light, or the fact that eight grown men just vanished before their eyes. 

* * *

  
At the opposite end of the country, a woman wakes, eyes wild.   
“He’s alive.”  
She has to let them know, she has to let everyone know.   
Harry Potter is alive. He’s alive, and she knows where to find him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think!


	4. Not all the way crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some plot is finally beginning to emerge....

When Sibyl comes running across the courtyard, with ragged hair, and crazed eyes behind her thick glasses, McGonagall is unable to hold in a tired sigh. This isn’t the first ‘prophecy’ of the month, and it surely won’t be the last. Desperate times tend to make people do desperate things, say desperate things. Or maybe Sibyl just likes the fleeting attention that she gets from her vapid declarations. McGonagall doesn’t think she’ll ever know for sure.

But this time is different. There are no metaphors or half truths. Sibyl speaks a simple fact, said with such conviction, that McGonagall can’t help but believe her, can’t help but feel that spark of hope for the first time in 5 years.

“Where is he” she asks. And Sibyl smiles at her, oddly grateful. It makes McGonagall wonder if the woman knows more about her reputation than she lets on, it’s like she’s grateful just to be believed, just to be listened to for once.

“London” is the reply. No more specificity after that. She tries her hardest, straining to see those extra details that are invisible to her, invisible to all of them. But London is as good as it gets. It’s better than the nothing that they had before.

It doesn’t take much to convince Albus. He knows as well as McGonagall that Harry Potter is a symbol, a weapon (perhaps he even knows even better, with all those secrets glittering in his crescent eyes). Hope is powerful, and if wielded right, it can be dangerous, and Harry Potter offers hope. He offers light in the darkness. The boy-that-lived actually being alive would be the greatest advantage of all.

They call the Order. They have a mission, a real mission. Find Harry Potter. They aren’t going to fail. They aren’t going to lose him. Not again. 

* * *

  
“You look like shit.” It’s a poor attempt at lightening the mood.

Harry plays along, for both of their sakes. “No, I look rugged and dangerous.”

“Yeah those bruises really go with that gnarly scar”. Aman traces the lightning bolt on his forehead which his hair usually covers. (It’s yet another freakish thing that stops him from being normal). “I’ve never seen you with bruises before, even when you really should’ve had them, you know, like when you got in that fist fight with Chris…” Aman’s rambling. He only does that when he gets nervous.

Harry briefly wonders what he has to be nervous about, before remembering his whole ‘vanishing people with his mind’ party trick.   
“So we are going to talk about it then.” He doesn’t mean for that to come off as so annoyed, just like he didn’t (really) mean for those people to disappear, and he didn’t mean to scare Aman.   
But intention doesn’t always equate with the result, and Aman is scared. More scared than Harry has ever seen him. He’s pretending not to be. He’s trying to smile but it’s brittle, and there’s this distant look in his eyes.

“Yes Harry, we’re clearly going to talk about it. There’s a difference between making things float and fucking killing people”

“We don’t know that I killed them” Harry protests weakly.

“But something bad happened to them.”

“Something bad happened to us as well Aman.”

Aman sighs sadly, and Harry can see tears beginning to form in his eyes. “I know it did.”

And Harry tries to ignore the way Aman tenses up when he hugs him. Because he didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to do whatever he did to those men. He’s a good person (or at least, he’s not a bad person).

When he drifts off back to sleep, he doesn’t have the fire dream. Instead he just stares into the abyss of darkness inside. And the abyss stares right back.

* * *

  
They’ve been scouring London for three days when Snape sees him.   
Because of course Snape, the one who didn’t really even want to be there, would be one to find the golden boy.   
It’s like de ja vu. For a second there, it really could’ve been James.   
He’s right there, prancing along the pavement, shopping bags in hand, talking animatedly to a boy with purple hair, waving his arms around and making a real spectacle of himself, just as his father used to. The others will be glad, Snape himself is secretly glad, because Harry is alive. He’s really alive. And he’s safe, living a normal muggle life, blending into the crowd.

Snape watches him for as long as he dares, flickering out of sight, ducking into alleyways and whispering charms under his breath. He doesn’t know quite why he’s doing it, why he’s following this boy he’s already decided that he despises. Just to be sure, that’ll be it. He just wants to be certain.   
The boy is a spitting image of James: same brown skin, same round framed glasses, same messy hair, although Harry’s is curlier and longer, reaching down below the bottom of his ears. Snape hates him. He hates this boy as much as he hated James. Harry turns around, and for a moment, he seems to stare directly at him. Even from this distance, Snape recognises those eyes. With a shudder he decides that he hates this boy more.   
He takes note of the address the boy stops at, and slips away into the shadows, this time for good. He may have found him, but he’s not going to be the one to speak to him. James- no- Harry is someone else’s problem. 

* * *

  
Harry puts the bags down on the table, maybe a little harder than he needs to. Jay starts unpacking seemingly unbothered.   
“Didn’t you feel like someone was watching us, like just then?”

“What are you talking about” Jay gives him this incredulous look, as if he’s acting crazy or something.

“I got that feeling, you know, what do they call it, my ears were burning?”

“That’s when someone’s shit talking about you. I imagine you get that one a lot.”

Harry rolls his eyes, “One day I am going to smother you in your sleep.”

“Did you really feel like we were being watched?”

“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise, would I?” Harry says it a bit louder, and a bit more forcefully than he really needs to. Maybe he isn’t all the way crazy (although the jury’s still out on that), but he’s definitely more than a little paranoid.

“No need to be so defensive, I was trying to show some interest, God!”

“No, Jay, come on mate, I’m sorry, I’m just stressed”

“What could you possibly have to be stressed about?”  
Harry huffs, but he doesn’t have a response for that, not one that would make sense in Jay’s world.

“Someone was watching us, I swear. I could like, I don’t know, feel it.”

Jay sets down a can of spaghetti hoops on the countertop with a sigh. “Well you haven’t pissed anyone off lately, have you?”

“No more than usual”. Harry decides that the night with green light (as he now refers to it in his head) does not count.

“Then maybe you’ve got a secret admirer…” Jay trails off with a knowing smirk.

Harry resists the urge to point out that he already has an admirer, because that really is a secret. If he says it out loud, even to Jay, then it becomes a whole thing. And it’s not meant to be a thing at all, in fact quite the opposite. Aman is meant to find a nice Muslim girl and settle down, not shag Harry every Friday whilst his parents are at the mosque.   
“Yep. That’ll be it! I’m irresistible, to men and women alike!”

Jay rolls his eyes, “Maybe this secret admirer is nearsighted”

“I’m not even going to pretend to understand that insult.”

“You are literally wearing glasses on your face right now.”  
Harry touches them and gasps, as if he hadn’t even noticed until that exact moment.

“Come on now Jay-Jay, I don’t know things like that. We all know that God either makes you smart or beautiful, it would be unfair if she’d given me everything in the tool box!”

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you” chants Jay.

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“And where exactly are you going?”

“Upstairs! And I’m taking these” Harry grabs the SpaghettiOs from the counter.

“At least heat them up you freak” Jay shouts after him.

That word doesn’t hurt coming from Jay’s mouth. (It doesn’t.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think!


	5. No time to waste

It annoys Remus that Snape was the one to find Harry. The only redeeming thing about it is that it seems to annoy Snape almost as much. But he gives over the address and shrugs as if to say, ‘this has nothing to do with me', as if he believes that he’s done his part. Remus would really rather that Snape had no part in this at all.

Everyone has their suggestions of how to get Harry back. ‘Rescue him’ still feels like a little bit of a stretch. The ideas range from Snape’s, ‘just stun him and explain when you bring him back’, to Molly’s more kindhearted and less kidnappy approach of ‘tell him that we knew his parents and we just want to take him home’.

Sirius’ suggestion of him being the one to find Harry is not well received. Remus knows that they have a point, the whole ‘wanted mass murderer, went a bit insane in Azkaban, too dramatic to be subtle in any way’ argument is pretty strong. But then again, so is the ‘there a million ways to alter someone’s appearance, I’m his godfather, I can handle speaking to a teenage boy, if you don’t let me go I will burn this place to the ground’ counter-argument that Sirius presents. The last part doesn’t do wonders for trying to convince everyone that he hasn’t in fact gone insane.   
But finally they agree. And that’s how Remus ends up knocking on the door of a London townhouse with Sirius Black at his side.

***

A boy with purple hair and hooded eyes answers, cracking the door open as wide as the chain will allow. They both try not to show their disappointment as an unfamiliar face smiles vacantly out at them, very much not Harry.   
“What can I do for you?” the stranger asks.

“We were wondering if you could tell us about a boy who lives here? His name is Harry Potter.” Sirius gets right in there, clearly having decided that there’s no time to waste. Remus sighs, Sirius is desperate, and it’s showing in his tactlessness.

Something strange flashes across the boy’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. “Nope, never heard of him.” He goes to close the door, but before he can, Remus steps in.

“Is there someone else we can speak to? Are your parents around?”

The boy seems to find that funny. “My parents haven’t been around since I was ten years old”  
The way he says it, as if it’s some inconsequential thing, some punchline to a joke that neither of them quite get, stuns Remus into silence.   
“But yeah, Mr Holtwood and Mrs Emms have taken the kids to the rec, but I’ll be sure to let them know you called by.”

Remus exchanges a look with Sirius. Something about this whole thing isn’t adding up. Not only is this boy not Harry Potter, it’s also unclear what relation he has to Harry, if any at all. Remus starts to wonder if Snape has sent them on some sort of a wild goose chase.

“Can’t we come in and wait for them to get back?” asks Sirius. Remus wonders if he can hear himself when he speaks, or if he’s unaware how creepy he’s coming across.

“Ummm…. no you can’t”, the boy seems increasingly nervous, “I know I said they’re at the rec but I’m not like here alone. There’s more staff but they’re just in a meeting now. We actually have an alarm system, and there’s a police station only a few blocks from here. Anyway what I’m trying to say is that I’m not supposed to answer the door to randos” The boy pauses in his rambling to scrutinise them. “Who are you by the way?”

Sirius jumps in before Remus can open his mouth. “I’m Mr Lu and this is Mr Pin”.   
Remus grimaces. Sometimes he wonders if Sirius is doing it on purpose.

“Right. So I’ll tell you stopped by, asking about Harry”, the boy mumbles something else under his breath.

“I thought you said you’d never heard of Harry Potter?”

“I did say that, didn’t I?”   
The door is closed in their faces. 

“He’s lying” Remus quickly decides

“I could’ve told you that.” Sirius grumbles in response.

“Harry lives there. He has to come or go at some point, so I say—”

“-we wait and watch this house! Yes great idea Sirius! Lets split up, you take the right, I’ll take the left.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Chip chop no time to waste!”

Remus rolls his eyes, but can’t stop himself from smiling. Not only because Sirius hasn’t been this happy, this chipper in a long while, but also because this insane plan might actually work out after all.

***

Less than an hour passes before Remus spots Harry. He’s skating down the street, weaving in between the pedestrians. Remus no longer wonders how Snape was so sure he’d found the right guy. Harry looks exactly like James. For a moment, Remus truly believes that his best friend is back from the dead. But then his mind catches up, and fills him with a different kind of hope.

He steps out into the street, intent on taking the Molly approach. Despite his lack of practice, especially in recent years, he really is good at talking to people, good at communicating difficult things. He’s fine. He can do this. He can explain to the doppleganger of his dead friend that the fate of a previously unknown world, the outcome of a previously unknown war, now rests upon his 16 year old shoulders. A perfectly normal conversation to have in broad daylight in a crowded London street.

He clocks the exact moment that Harry sees him. The boys eyes widen in fear, and he seems paralysed for a moment. Almost like… a deer in headlights. Remus knows it’s not the time, but he gets a small kick of satisfaction out of the fact that Sirius would’ve laughed at that.  
The feeling is short lived, because he blinks, and Harry is gone, melted away into the crowd.

Remus follows, allowing himself to sprint down the street at superhuman speed, ensuring with a well placed enchantment that no one will look his way twice. He refuses to lose Harry, it’s not the kind of thing you can forgive yourself for, not twice.

Harry slips up when he turns down an alleyway. A dead end. He’s cornered, boxed in. Remus is finally able to make his case. He takes a step closer, trying to ignore how defensively Harry is standing, all hunched shoulders and clenched fists. 

“Fuck off” Harry snarls. He doesn’t sound like James. His accent is different, his voice rougher. He sounds older and angrier than his father ever did. Especially when he adds, “Step any closer and you’ll regret it.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, I just need to speak to you Harry”

“How the fuck do you know my name?”  
Remus will admit, that was a bad move on his part. Referring to strangers by their first name isn’t such a great way to go about getting them to trust you.

“I was a friend of your fathers.”  
Something softens, and for a moment, Harry looks even more familiar. Something like longing flashes across his face. The moment passes.

“Oh yeah, a nice family fucking chat? That’s the usual reason for grown men to chase teenage boys into dark alleyways and get them all alone, isn’t it?”

Remus flinches at the insinuation.   
“Harry…”

“Stop saying my name like you fucking know me”

“I do know you Harry, or at least I used to.”

“Stop speaking in fucking metaphors.”

The situation is escalating, which seems impossible, given how angry Harry was before they even began. Remus decides to go for a different approach.   
“Okay. Okay. Have you ever found yourself doing things, that you can’t quite explain?”

The way Harry’s jaw twitches after Remus says that tells him all he needs to know.   
“I have no idea what you’re talking about”. The words are hollow. An obvious lie.

“I can explain it Harry. I can make this all make sense.”  
Harry’s eyes are so hopeless. He’s so young, and so unable to handle this all alone. Remus takes another step closer to the boy, to James’ boy. Big mistake.

It all happens so quickly. One moment Remus is moving forward, and then next he’s hurtling backwards, as if by the blast of a bomb, hitting the brick wall harder than feels healthy.

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

Remus tries not to panic, tries not to contemplate the fact Harry is somehow performing advanced wandless magic. “Harry. Please, I’m only trying to help”

“I don’t want your fucking help”

Remus doesn’t want to do it. He really doesn’t. “STUPIFY”

Harry crumples to the ground. Remus wants to scream.   
That was not how that was meant to go at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!!!!


	6. Sounds bent, I'm out

Harry shoots upright, instantly on the defensive, adrenaline already coursing through him.   
There are people crowded around him, looming over where he’s splayed out on a sofa? (He can’t tell quite what the piece of furniture is. Not that that matters right now.)  
The faces have matching looks of concern on them, all furrowed eyebrows and pinched lips, but all of them are unfamiliar (except the creep from the alleyway).   
This is bad, like really, really bad. He doesn’t know where he is, or how he got here. This is kidnapping or human trafficking and he’s going to die here. The worst part is that no one will come looking for him, no one will even think to search, not for a few weeks at least, and by then it will be too late. Well, actually no, that isn’t the worst part. Dying is the worst part. Harry really doesn’t want to fucking die. (Not like this).

He can’t show them he’s nervous. He can’t show any weakness at all. That’s how they get you (not that there’s any way he can be more ‘got’ than he already is). They aren’t holding all of the aces: he’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve, even if alleyway creep seems to be able to do something similar. Harry can’t wrap his head around how else a man pinned against the opposite wall was able to knock him out. He’s probably remembering it wrong, residual confusion from being rendered unconscious. Using his elbows, he pushes himself up into a half sitting position, doing his best to keep his body language open, to seem casual and unbothered.

He cannot show them how effected he is by this. (Although he can’t imagine anyone who would remain unaffected after being fucking stalked and kidnapped). “Well this is nice.”

“Harry, I-“

Harry cuts across sharply, in a loud drawling voice. “Yes, hello, my name is Harry, what’s yours? That’s how a normal interaction goes.”

A man with a round face and a balding ginger head speaks up, cheerful as anything, apparently not reading the room. “Hello Harry, my name is Arthur”

“Hey there Art”, he fans his fingers at the man, “Now is someone gonna tell me what’s going on here, or am I supposed to guess?”

The creep from the alleyway chimes in: “Harry. You have no idea how long we’ve been looking for you…”

“Don’t care. Not an answer to my question.”

He peers over all of their heads, catching the eye of a man standing in the corner of the room, who is a serious contender for the greasiest person Harry has ever seen. He’s actually glowering, as if Harry’s had a chance to personally offend him yet. No matter. The guy will look at him with that hate in his eyes for legitimate reasons soon enough. “You, goth guy, what’s going on.”

The guy gives him that look again, like he’s sucking on a lemon, and he seems strangely… angry that Harry would even address him. As if he has any right to be angry in this situation, when Harry’s the one who has actually been fucking kidnapped.

Then the guy speaks, in this affected, languid voice, which he has to be putting on. “Your parents were murdered when you were a baby. You were left with your maternal aunt. When we came to retrieve you, you were no longer residing there, and you’ve been lost to us ever since.”

Harry blinks slowly. Any second now, he’s going to wake up. It sounds stupid and cliché to even think, but this has to be dream. This is either a dream, or a prank, or a cruel trick that they’re playing right before they cut his body up into little pieces.

“Okay, cool. Couple of follow up questions: who are you, where am I, what the fuck is going on, how do you lose a fucking baby, and what made you think I even want to be retrieved?” He’s almost shouting at this point, because what the actual fuck. Who says things like that? Who just drops a bomb of information (which could technically all be a lie) on people like that.

No one even bothers to reply, they just stare at him, all sad and disappointed, as if he owes them something. And that makes him even more angry.

He uses the last of his strength, which is quickly waning, to push himself up to his feet. He suddenly feels exhausted, like he wants to sleep forever. This is too much. He’s overwhelmed and strangely sad. (There’s nothing to be sad about, they’re just words, just empty words). “I’m going home now.”

“I’m sorry Harry, but we can’t let you do that.” The alleyway creep reaches out to stop him from moving any further. Harry smacks his hand away, turning to glare at him.

“Don’t fucking touch me”.

He’s shorter and scrawnier than most of the other people in the room, but a few of them still get that flash of shock, that flash of fear in their eyes, and that gives Harry an immense feeling of satisfaction. They should be fucking scared.

“But we’re not going to hurt you.”

He laughs. “That sounds remarkably like what someone who was going to hurt me would say.”

The goth guy speaks up again. “Lupin told us what happened. How you used your magic.”

It takes him a second to realise that the man is talking about his powers. What the fuck. What the fuck does that even mean. It’s okay when Aman says stupid shit like that, because it’s a joke. (Because it’s Aman). But this? This is the furthest fucking thing from okay. “My magic!?”

“We’re going to help you with it, help you tame it and control it.” The woman who speaks has a warm voice, almost soothing. Harry refuses to let it calm him down. He doesn’t need to be calm right now. He needs to be angry. Not only did they steal him off the fucking street, they also keep saying things, things which scratch away at the walls he’s built up inside himself. Deeply personal things, things he does his best not to think about. And they have no right. No right at all.

“Nope. Sounds bent. I’m out.”

Alleyway creep speaks again. God he really loves the sound of his own voice. “Look Harry, the bottom line is that bad people are out there looking for you right now, and if we were able to find you, then they can do the same”

“I’m pretty sure some bad people did find me.” He replies snidely.

The ginger guy from before, Arthur (?) speaks up. “Molly, maybe we should just explain it to him.”

“No, we’ve already said enough. We’re waiting for Albus to get here. That’s what we agreed.”

A new voice speaks up, and Harry decides that he’s not even going to turn his head to acknowledge it. Isn’t even going to give them that small satisfaction of thinking that he cares. “He deserves to know. Besides, what is taking Albus so long? The ‘Boy-who-lived’ actually being alive seems like a top priority to me.”

“There’s a lot to unpack there.” Harry mumbles. He actually feels strangely calmer, which in turn makes him freak out again. There’s nothing about this situation that should make him calm. Nothing about this that is normal, or even close to normal.

He really wants Aman right now, or even Jay. He just wants someone normal, who will make a funny remark so he can laugh, and make this whole thing melt away.   
He doesn’t think they’re going to hurt him (but it’s best not assume that sort of thing). That thought makes him a different kind of nervous, because what exactly have they brought him here for then?

“Harry, why don’t you be a dear and go and sit in the kitchen whilst we sort this out. I can rustle you something up to eat if you’re hungry. Are you hungry?”  
This random woman trying to mother him makes him unbelievably uncomfortable.

“Nope” (he is not eating the weird murder food in this weird murder house).

And then he’s being ushered into a family kitchen, and the door is closed behind him. He wants to bolt. He wants to scream, wants to sink to the floor and cry. Because none of this makes any fucking sense. And they were all talking at him, as if he was supposed to smile and nod, and accept the half facts and stories he was being fed. It all felt so wrong. It all feels so wrong. But he can’t leave. There’s something inside him, something strange and twisted, which demands that he stays.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy…..   
> Posting this as a little birthday treat to myself...   
> Also... not sure if anyone cares (they don't), but this whole social services finding you a flat during corona virus and then being imminently made to live on your own with no emotional support shit kinda slaps...  
> Also I don't know if you non UK folks call things bent but it is so funny to me (I am a gay I am allowed to say this don't you worry)  
> Anyway.... like and comment


	7. He's remarkable, he has to be

Ron thuds down the stairs, easily taking them two at a time, wondering what is possibly so important that half the bloody wizarding world seems to be congregated in their house.   
They’re arguing, and not even bothering to hide it.

His mum catches his eye, and waves him over.   
“We have a guest, in the kitchen. Why don’t you go and keep him company, Ron?”

Ron grumbles to himself, but goes where he’s directed, figuring that it’s better than picking a fight. He tries to ignore how quickly the door slams shut behind him.   
There’s a teenage boy, about his age, sitting cross legged on the countertop, with his eyes squeezed shut, and his jaw clenched, muttering something under his breath. It’s a bit strange, but Ron’s seen stranger things happen in this house, that’s one of the ‘perks’ of having six siblings. And not only are there eight people crammed under one roof, well fewer than eight by now, but two of them just happen to Fred and George, and chaos and strangeness follows them wherever they go.

People tend to think that he’s dense, or unobservant, when really he’s a lot better at noticing things than he lets on. Like the muggle clothes, and the gold nose ring, and the lightning bolt scar on the boy’s forehead, visible as he rakes a hand through his messy hair. He’s good at noticing, but it still takes him a second to process it all. He’s heard the stories, every wizarding kid has.

“Bloody hell. You’re him, you’re Harry Potter”. He can’t even help himself from bursting out with it, because bloody hell, Harry Potter is alive. Harry Potter is in his kitchen.

Harry opens his eyes, and fixes Ron with a withering glare. “Can everyone piss right off with this ‘Potter’ shite already. It’s Evans, Harry Evans.”

Well then. That’s not how Ron imagined the saviour of the wizarding world would act. He does his best not to let his discomfort show. “Sorry”. This guy, Harry Whatever, is clearly not in the mood for a conversation.

“Don’t be sorry, just tell me what’s going on. What the fuck is actually going on?” Harry’s voice doesn’t rise, he doesn’t get angry at all, but the calmness of the words terrifies Ron more than if Harry had been screaming.

Ron struggles to find an answer. Surely he’s not expected to explain everything to this guy. It doesn’t really seem fair that he’d get saddled with a task like that, introducing Harry bloody Potter to the wizarding world. “I dunno what I’m meant to tell you.” He goes for the evasive approach. This works in most confrontations, just play stupid, and they leave you alone.

Harry stares at him, long and hard, and then he huffs. “Of course you don’t.”

The voices in the other room rise, he can hear his mum, loud and shrill, ‘Harry needs to be around children his age, he needs to get socialised, not stay in some antique haunted house’ (haunted houses were a muggle concept that Ron’s dad had explained the previous week. Fred and George had found the idea of them hilarious, but Molly had been less than impressed).

Remus retorts, ‘he needs to be with family. Me and Sirius are family, or as good as.’

Ron glances apologetically at Harry, wondering if the people talking about him as if he isn’t within earshot, making decisions for and about him, bothers the guy. Save for a short, humourless chuckle, Harry doesn’t react at all. Now that Ron is standing closer, he can see the dark circles under Harry’s eyes, the still present tension in his jaw.

He feels bad for him, but he doesn’t reckon that Harry would appreciate his pity. Honestly, he can’t seem to get a good read on the famous Harry Potter. And that’s usually something that he’s good at, telling which sort of people are which, but Harry seems more complicated than the average person, although Ron decides that that’s probably because he isn’t average. He’s remarkable. He has to be: this whole thing depends on it.

Seemingly on cue, Harry snorts, and pulls something out of his pocket. Ron recognises it from his Dad’s ramblings as a cigarette. He decides not to mention the way Harry’s fingers are trembling, just slightly. Ron thinks that if he were in Harry’s position, he’d be fully losing it.

“Do you mind?” asks Harry, lighting it with a flick of his fingers before Ron can respond. That just serves to confuse Ron more. Without his wand, he doesn’t reckon that he could do that.

Ron watches as Harry inhales deeply, then lets the smoke pour out of his nostrils like one of those dragons from the pictures that Charlie sends them.

“Ugh” Ron can’t help but cough as the smoke fills their tiny kitchen. He’s been around people who smoke from pipes before, but this is somehow worse, leaving the air tasting hot and stale.

Harry smiles, actually smiles. It suits him, makes him look younger, more like the Harry Potter from the bedtime stories his mum used to tell him. “You sound exactly like someone else I know.”

He takes another huff of the cigarette, then smirks at Ron. This smile is less nice, there’s something glinting in Harry’s eyes that makes him a little nervous.  
“You wanna try it?”

Ron absolutely does not want to try it under any circumstances. The smoke hanging in the air makes him feel sick, so he doesn’t want to think about how it will feel when it’s settling in his lungs. “Yeah sure!”

Harry passes it over, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Ron takes it gingerly and attempts to mimic Harry’s earlier gesture. He ends up a coughing, spluttering mess.

Harry laughs. It’s rough and mirthless, and it stings slightly that he’s laughing at Ron rather than with him, but it’s a laugh all the same. Ron is all too used to be being the butt of people’s jokes.

It seems to clear the air slightly, but only metaphorically, seeing as Ron still can’t breathe right with the smoke in his lungs.

“If you can’t tell me what’s going on, at least tell me your name.”

“It’s Ron, Ron Weasley.”

“Well, nice to meet you mate.” Harry sounds like he just might mean it. 

* * *

Sirius isn’t sure what to make of all this.   
He doesn’t get let out of the house very often, because of the whole: ‘being a wanted criminal’ thing. When Remus is out, sometimes he gets so stir crazy that he almost wishes he hadn’t torn down the portrait of his abusive mother which used to hang in the hall. He misses the sound of other human voices so much, that he’d rather be insulted than wallow in silence.

And it is wallowing. He misses James, he misses Lily, he misses Remus, even though Remus is right there. He does NOT miss that traitorous rat Peter. (Given the whole: ‘his soul is a rat’ thing, they probably should’ve seen the betrayal coming). He misses his friends, but most of all, he misses himself.

He misses funny, crazy, reckless, rebellious Sirius. He misses feeling like a person.   
He misses it so much, that every time he’s let out, he overcompensates like hell. Where he used to act flamboyant, he now acts downright deranged. Where he used to be glib, now he’s tactless. Where he used to be loud, now he’s deafening. It’s like when he was trying to magnify himself, he got all the wrong parts, intensified the worst aspects of his character. It’s no wonder that Remus is the only one who can put up with him these days.

Missing himself reaches it’s peak when he lays eyes on Harry Potter.   
Harry Potter who is currently laying unconscious on Molly’s sofa.   
Harry reminds him of James, sure. In appearance, the two of them are almost identical, which doesn’t seem to make genetic sense. (Yes, Sirius has been reading muggle books, but what else is he supposed to do, when he’s cooped up all day?). But Harry also reminds of himself, or at least how he used to be. From his nose ring, to his chipped black nail polish, to his patched Denim jacket: Harry reminds him of a time when he used to feel alive.

When Harry is on his feet, spitting snarky comments, Sirius feels that twisting feeling of nostalgia again. He remembers when he used to be this furious, this passionate. Now he’s lucky if he even has the energy to get dressed in the mornings. When Harry is banished to the kitchen, Sirius can finally let out a breath of air he didn’t even know he was holding in.

“Until things get sorted out, he’s coming to live with us.”  
That’s the most assertive thing he’s said, and meant, in a while.

Molly doesn’t agree. Molly doesn’t like him, doesn’t trust him. He has this sneaking feeling that maybe the thing that Molly doesn’t like is the fact that him and Remus are decidedly more than just friends. He hopes for her children’s sake that that isn’t the reason that he catches her glaring at him sometimes. Out of all of them, his money is on Percy.

Then everyone starts arguing, and he feels that heaviness in his bones. He’s too tired to protest, too tired to talk. Everything is just fucking exhausting. He slumps down onto the sofa, and lets Remus take over in the battle for Harry. As he sits there, and wonders how long it will be before he can curl up on his own sofa, and wallow in the silence, a familiar smell tickles at his nostrils. When he recognises it, he can actually feel himself smile. Harry smoking in a strangers kitchen, probably with the sole intention of pissing them all off, is a very Sirius thing to do.   
And God damn it, he deserves at least a chance to be himself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think!!!!


	8. Weird kidnap cult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore enters!  
> (Hint: I am not a big fan sadly xxx)

Ron doesn’t like him very much. In fact, Ron seems to be actually scared of him, which suits Harry just fine.   
He’s painfully, painfully aware that a majority of the people he meets don’t like him. But something inside him, something twisted and messy and painful insists that he takes it further, so they don’t just dislike him, they despise him. He figures that it’s better to be hated for things you say, things you do, than who you are. There’s a difference between getting hit because you’re a dick, and getting hit because you’re brown, because you’re poor, because you’re gay (or whatever Harry is), because you don’t have parents or anyone who actually cares. He’s experienced both, and he knows which one he prefers.

Ron doesn’t hate him because of his identity. Ron has that wary look in his eyes because Harry is being rude, being abrasive, smoking in his kitchen. And Harry loves it.   
He thinks that there might be something profoundly wrong with him. As normal as he pretends to be, there has to be something fucked up, something wrong with him, like in his head, for him to enjoy being hated. Something sick and sadistic.

This whole thing is pissing him off. This situation, the way he’s being treated, almost makes him boil over with rage. So he figures, what’s the harm in pissing everyone else here off? What’s the harm in making them as angry as they’ve made him? (No one ever taught him not to bite the hand that feeds you).

He’s distracted from his thoughts by a sharp cracking sound, and a sudden bustle of voices, loudening again in the other room. He can’t make out anything that’s being said, but he imagines that it can’t be good.

He’s getting that pounding painful feeling on his left temple again, those awful headaches that keep appearing recently, getting more forceful and incapacitating each time. He wonders sometimes if it has anything to do with the ugly mark branded on his forehead, one that is too precise to be accidental, too jagged to be surgical, one that he is half convinced someone cut onto his head with a kitchen knife. And then he shakes it off, because that’s stupid. The scar on his forehead, the one that he hates, but still makes sure to show off more often than he’d care to admit (he loves the stares, craves the attention, likes that for just a moment, he is seen), cannot be responsible for pounding migraines. He may have failed his science GCSE, but he knows that at least.

“Harry?” the ginger haired woman beckons (probably Ron’s mother. God he’s met more ginger people today than he has in the entire rest of his life. That is to say, three).   
He walks back through the door, not even sparing Ron a second glance. He wonders if that will make the boy hate him more, or less.

The room now contains one more stranger. He’s old, much older than the others, with deep wrinkles cutting his face like caverns (oh yes, Harry can be poetic when he wants to be), and silvery hair almost as long as his beard. People with beards that long tend to freak Harry out, he’s always argued that there’s something distinctly untrustworthy about people with excessive facial hair (something which has nothing to do with his inability to grow any for himself).   
The old guy is dressed like an absolute twat, in bright crimson garments (how would you even describe them? A dress? A fucking nightgown? Robes? Robes feels the most appropriate), with this long swooping cloak (yes, a cloak. Like they’re living in the Middle Ages or something). Harry notices that they have this intricate gold stitching, precisely matched to the gold buckles on the man’s boots, and then he feels like a cliché for even thinking about that at all. He’s not like that, he isn’t the fashion fag, always obsessing over clothes and material things, flamboyant and funny, gay with a capital G. He isn’t the ‘fun’ kind of gay. (And he knows that that’s a fucked up thing to think, but there’s only so much he can take in one day).

As he scrutinises this twat’s (yes, this man is a twat, it’s as undeniable as that fucking bright red), outfit, he realises that most of the other people here are dressed in a similar fashion, with long, loose garments, and old fashioned accessories, but none as garish as oldie. It just further solidifies the proof that this is a fucking cult.   
He realises that he’s been standing, staring at this man, for longer than is polite. He’s about to look away, apologise or something (as tough as Harry Evans pretends to be, he never disrespects old people, except the racist ones), and then he remembers that he doesn’t give a fuck.

“Bit early for Christmas there, Santa”

The man’s eyes twinkle behind his half moon glasses.   
(Harry knows he isn’t one to talk, with the neon green, radioactive petri dishes strapped to his skull in the place of eyes, but this old guy’s eyes are a shade of blue which is too bright, too brilliant to be natural).  
He creeps Harry the fuck out.

Especially when he smiles, and says, “Harry Potter, it’s so good to see you my boy.”

“It’s Evans. Harry Evans.” He says it more sharply than he intended.

“But Potter was your fathers last name. We all know you as Harry Potter”

“I don’t give a shit. And I don’t have a father.”  
A lot of people flinch at that, which Harry thinks is kind of over dramatic. So they all knew his dad? So what? He didn’t know the guy, and he’s turned out perfectly okay. He refuses to be the cliché foster kid, yearning after parents who were never there (even if they were fucking murdered, which is a whole other can of worms).   
“Well anyway, you’re the man in charge then?”

Oldie gives him this dreamy smile, and Harry is almost fully convinced that this strange, ethereal persona is an act. No normal person carries themselves like that. “My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” Then Dumbledore smiles again, like he’s expecting Harry to be impressed.

“You think you have the high ground, telling me what I should be called, when you’re walking around with a name like _that_?”

Dumbledore laughs, short and airy. “I’m the headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“I don’t care, I asked if you were in charge of this” he motions around, “weird little cult.” (Weird kidnap cult, weird matching clothes cult, weird talk to Harry about his long gone family and stir up these gross, twisty emotions inside him which he should not be feeling cult).

“I suppose that I am.”

“Right. So am I free to go then?” (there’s no reason he would be, but hey, a guy can dream).

“Harry, I don’t think you quite understand this situation.” That fucking patronising tone. Like he’s a little kid, like talking down to him is the only way to get the message across.

“Well of course I fucking well don’t, no one has bothered to explain anything to me.”

Dumbledore sighs, and his bright eyes dull slightly. Fucking good. It makes him look marginally less creepy. “You’re a wizard, Harry.”

Harry laughs, sharp and rough and angry. He feels all the rage, all the curled up anger inside of him, boiling and bubbling. He feels as if he’s about to explode. “Yeah. I’m done here. I’m not dealing with this shit. I’ll take a bus, or fucking hitchhike. I’m going home.”

“Harry, my boy…”

“Stop talking to me like you fucking know me. You don’t know me. You knew my parents, great. Good for you. I didn’t, so it doesn’t fucking mean anything to me.” He has to regain control, he has to swallow it back down. He has to ignore them, has to ignore all of this. Last time he lost his cool, eight people vanished. These people are fucking pricks, and they’re pissing him off worse than he’s been pissed off in a while, but they don’t deserve to die.

“Please, if we can just talk about this.” The fucking pleading, like they’re negotiating for a hostage. The feeling bubbles and boils, low in his stomach. It’s more than just rage now. It’s something feral, something he can’t control, even if he wanted to.

As the pressure inside of him reaches a breaking point, he feels something burst outwards. It’s not from every fragment of him, burrowing out from under each flake of his skin, like the green was. It’s static and flighty. It’s like lightning, electricity coursing through his veins.   
It’s only when the scent of smoke hits his nostrils, and his ears start to ring with the sound of distant yelling, that he realises that the fucking sofa is on fire.   
Oh there is something properly wrong with him.   
There is something profoundly fucked up about Harry Evans.

“Harry…” It’s careful and delicate, like he’s insane, unreachable. Like he’s deranged or dangerous or criminal. He might be all of those things. The look in Dumbledore’s eyes, the brightness dulled, with a hint of what could be… what just could be fear. For the first time in his life, it doesn’t make Harry feel powerful. It just makes him feel small.

“Fuck.” He stares at the ceiling and counts himself down from ten. It’s what the school counsellor they made him go to said he should do. Count down from ten, calm yourself. Don’t lose control. Not again. But that little voice inside him whispers that it was just a sofa, that he didn’t even really do anything wrong, that it was their fault, their fault for provoking him, their fault for pissing him off. He wonders if it’s possible to gaslight yourself.

The sofa isn’t on fire anymore, but the scent of smoke lingers in the air, thick and cloying. He can feel their eyes on him, and he doesn’t even want to turn to look. Doesn’t even want to see if they’re angry, or concerned or afraid.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore (not that he ever did). In fact, he doesn’t want to be anywhere anymore. Would it be such a bad thing to so attempt that vanishing crap on himself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think!!


	9. That drowning feeling

No one speaks for a long moment. The tension is heavy, tangible in the air. Something flickers in Molly’s eyes as she stares at the singed sofa. For the amount of fire there was, it’s remarkably intact. Sirius supposes that it would have to be somewhat damage resistant, what with Fred and George knocking about, forever reminding him of his glory days. He doesn’t think it’s funny exactly, because it isn’t. Harry is clearly hurting, clearly barely keeping a grip, clearly has painfully limited control over his magic, over himself.   
But the looks on everyone else’s faces? Priceless.

“Harry. Has that sort of thing ever happened before?”

Dumbledore’s voice has lost it’s usual calming quality. In fact, now it’s tight with something that could be fear. It seems like a bit of an over reaction, but then again, what is Sirius expecting from a man dressed head to toe in a colour so garish that it hurts his eyes a little. And they call him a drama queen? (They being Lily mostly. He’d give anything for her to insult him, one last time).

Harry doesn’t answer, just stares at the ceiling, with a tight jaw, clenching and unclenching his fists slowly. Sirius wants to walk over to him, to ask him if he’s alright, but he restrains himself. Harry doesn’t like or trust any of them, he doesn’t want their comfort, or their placations. Sirius might know what he feels like, just a little bit. After that Halloween night, and the betrayal, and Azkaban, and the escape, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to offer empty words of comfort. The last thing he wanted was to be asked if he was alright, because he really wasn’t. And docile words can’t soothe the wounds that trauma leaves.

No one else speaks for a long moment, with Dumbledore’s question, Dumbledore’s fear hanging heavy in the air. He has this look on his face, as if he’s seen a ghost. It’s strange, because that trick Harry pulled, it was just magic. Accidental magic, more intense and untamed than anything Sirius has ever seen before, magic that seemed to burst from Harry’s body, with no clear origin, but it was just magic all the same. Based on the look on Dumbledore’s face, you’d think that Harry set a person on fire, rather than just a piece of furniture.

Then at last, Harry replies.   
“Yes”.   
It’s hollow, it’s pained, it’s like he’s screaming for help, like he’s drowning, all alone in the ocean. Sirius happens to know that drowning feeling, all too well.

“We can help you. Help you train your magic. Help you control it.”

Sirius notices Harry flinch at the word ‘magic’ and he feels sorry for the boy. If just the word triggers that response in him, Sirius wonders what he’ll do when he’s surrounded by it, fighting in a war to protect a world built on it. And then that thought makes him angry, because for all of Harry’s fury and contempt, he’s a child and not a soldier. He shouldn’t have to place his life on the line. Sirius’ generation fought for a better world, and this is what they accomplished? Lily and James died fighting in a war which they may have already lost, all these years later. Lily and James died to protect their son, not to set him up to be a child soldier, fighting a losing battle.

“Fine.” Harry pauses, glowering around the room. “But I don’t trust this, I don’t trust any of you.”

It’s a start.

****

A false start perhaps. Because even though the fury in Harry’s eyes has dulled somewhat, he’s sticking to his guns on the whole ‘not trusting them’ front. He stays standing, refusing to sit even when Molly performs some complex charms which set the sofa back to rights. There’s tension in his stance, a thin tremor running through him which threatens to explode into action at any moment. It’s fight or flight for Harry, and Sirius still isn’t quite sure what he’s choosing.

“Why now?” Harry asks.

“We didn’t know where you were until very recently.” Dumbledore responds smoothly, with the softness in his voice returned. “The woman who helped locate you said something about a surge of energy, with an epicentre in London. Can you tell us anything about that?”

“Nope” Harry pops the P, very deliberately. It’s an obvious lie, which surprises Sirius. He didn’t peg Harry for being a bad liar.   
“And why didn’t you just leave me alone?”

Dumbledore’s brow furrows, like the question genuinely puzzles him. To be fair, it puzzles Sirius as well a little. He isn’t sure the extent to which Harry is being wilful, rather than genuinely not understanding how much he means to them. ~~How much the idea of him means to them~~.   
“Because you deserve to be with your family, your family’s friends, you deserve to be in the world you were born to and-”

Harry cuts across. “No, that’s bullshit, you don’t care about all that.”  
That stuns Dumbledore into silence.   
“I’ll rephrase. Why did you kidnap me from an alleyway?”

Harry shoots a glare in Remus’ direction, and Sirius’ heart breaks a little for him. Breaks a little because Harry shouldn’t hate Remus, he should love him and call him Moony and laugh at his jokes, and tease him for his jumpers like Sirius does. His heart breaks for Remus, but also for himself a little, because even a look of hatred would be better than the way that Harry’s eyes slide right over him, like he doesn’t mean anything. Like he doesn’t even exist at all.

Dumbledore decides to go for the honesty approach. That surprises Sirius slightly. The Dumbledore he knows has always been one for half-truths, words placed and planned deliberately, each with a purpose, to inform, to manipulate, to control.  
“The wizarding world is under threat at the moment, because of a very evil man. The same man who killed your parents. That night, when he murdered them, you should’ve died too, but you survived, in fact, you’re the only person who’s ever survived a killing curse.”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“That shit doesn’t happen in real life. This is a joke. It has to be. That shit sounds like an overdone superhero origin story. This isn’t real. This isn’t normal.” Harry’s getting agitated again, the fury flaring up. He seems to be increasingly likely to chose fight. Sirius wonders how long it’s going to take him to get it, how many times they’ll have to drag him round in circles, spitting and swearing, until it clicks.

“Harry… you just set that sofa on fire with your mind.”

“Yeah, because I’m not fucking normal. I’m a fucking freak, I always have been, and you can’t just march in here now and dump all of this shit on me and expect me to take it in my stride.”

“No of course not, I understand.”

“You don’t understand shit.”

Harry stares at the ceiling again, with the same clenched fists as before. Sirius hopes that this thinly veiled rage wouldn’t have been there if he and Remus had been able to, had been allowed to, raise Harry. He wonders if Harry was just born this angry, or if the world, if his life, made him this way. He wishes everything was different. He wishes he was born in a loving home, wishes his mother kisses him on the forehead and read him bedtime stories, rather than maiming him with scalding, barbed words, and leaving him with nothing but burns on his skin, and a smouldering hole in the family tapestry. He wishes James and Lily were alive, and Harry was happy and whole and normal, smiling and joking, rather than standing there now, with that glowering, feral look in his eyes. He wishes he never went to Azkaban, wishes he never felt himself slip away like that, wishes he never lost everything that made him a person. He wishes that this whole situation wasn’t his fault. Wishes that Harry being the way Harry is didn’t all boil down to one decision, one mistake, one ounce of misplaced trust all those years ago.

* * *

“Perhaps we don’t understand, my boy, but still we want to help.”  
If there’s one thing Harry hates, it’s being patronised. (Okay, there’s more than one thing Harry hates, in fact, there’s a million different things Harry hates. That’s what happens when you get so angry you can taste it).

“Fine.”   
It’s not giving up. He is not giving them the satisfaction of breaking him. He’s just fed up of arguing. Fed up of the same back and forth. He’ll just agree, and then do whatever the fuck he wants. It’s easier to get forgiveness than permission right? (Not that Harry plans on getting either).

“You’ll be attending Hogwarts, it’s the safest place in the world.”

Harry cannot even begin to unpick that statement, cannot even being to fathom what it means. And why should he have to?   
“What.”   
He leaves off the ‘the fuck’ that he wanted to add, but he’s sure that Dumbledore gets the message.

“It’s the greatest wizarding school in the world.”

“I’ve left school. I did my GCSEs, and I am not going back. Me and education don’t get along.”  
Sure, he could’ve tried a bit harder. But the number of different schools he went to, the number of second chances he was on, it was much easier to just slip through the cracks. Much easier to give up than to give a shit.

“This is a different kind of education, my boy.”

“Stop saying ‘my boy’, I don’t belong to you, and it makes you sound like a pervert.”  
The old man blinks slowly at him, lost for words for the first time. Harry wonders what everyone is even doing here, seeing as it’s the Dumble-Whatever-he’s-called show. (Yes, he knows his name is Dumbledore, but it’s a stupid name, so he’s electing not to remember).

“Harry, this is more like training, to help you control your magic.” (The thing he needs most is training to control his temper. But ‘magic’ comes as a close second). Dumbledore continues, “And finding you now, it’s remarkably good timing. There’s only two weeks until September.”

“Well observed.”

“So you can join the rest of the pupils in sixth year.”

“How’s there time for school, with the magic kingdom under attack from the baddies and all that?”

“It’s called the wizarding world” (And yes. Harry knows that. It’s as if these ‘wizards’ have never heard of a joke. Harry refuses to consider the possibility that he just might not be funny). “And we believe that this is the best, and safest place for you to be right now.”

“Well if _you_ believe it, then it must be true”. Dumbledore smiles warmly, like he doesn’t even detect the sarcasm. (It’s infuriating). “Won’t I be a little behind?”  
Harry’s been behind his whole life, so it’s no big deal to him. According to his notes, which he _borrowed_ from the office at a previous home, he could barely even talk at four years old. And not being able to talk effectively, when your peers are learning to read and write, doesn’t really set one up well for the world of education.

“There’s ways to fill in the gaps! Extra tutoring for example”

“Wow, enticing me into extra education by offering me… extra education. How can a guy resist?”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a…” Harry clenches his jaw, and finds himself loudly grinding his teeth, making his frustration audible. (Aman hates it when he does that).   
Fuck it. Fuck it, why not? It might be a laugh (it won’t), and if not, he can always hitch a ride back home. “Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tide is turning slightly!  
> Let me know what you think!!


	10. The boy he could've known

‘Maybe.’  
Dumbledore seems happy enough with that, the old coot.

The longer they’re trapped in a room together, the more that Sirius’ twisty emotions and thoughts and feelings come crawling up to the surface.   
He didn’t always dislike Dumbledore. In fact, in his school days he had a genuine respect for the man, saw him as one of the adults who got it, one of the only ones who cared. He’d always be the first one to smirk or chuckle at one of their pranks, always the first one to offer a comforting word in times of crisis. Hell Sirius even trusted the guy, and with his upbringing? Trusting people never came easy. Trust was never really a part of their family motto.

Of course, when you spend over a decade in a prison which is literally soul sucking, and come out to find that the man you respected, the man you trusted, barely lifted a finger to help you, well that tends to skew your perspective somewhat. When you find out that that man didn’t care about you. That man used you, and manipulated you, and then threw you to the side. When you find out that that man gave Harry away to perfect strangers, despite the fact that Remus was there. Reliable, actually trustworthy Remus, who would’ve done anything for Harry. Sirius knows that the reason Dumbledore didn’t even really consider that option had less to do with blood magic protection bullshit and more to do with Remus’ _furry little problem_. And that bigotry just makes him hate Dumbledore even more.   
Whenever he looks at Dumbledore, he sees the years he spent inside, rotting away, tormented for crimes he was innocent of. Crimes Dumbledore knew, or should’ve known, he was innocent of, and yet neglected to do anything about.

He can’t vocalise it, because everyone thinks that Albus Dumbledore is the goddamn second coming. (Yes, the muggle books that Sirius has forced himself to read in his isolation extend to the Holy Texts). He doesn’t really fancy cosying up to a man who royally ‘Judased’ him.   
It brings him an immeasurable amount of joy to see Harry’s clear contempt for the guy. It makes him feel a little less crazy. Although, all things considered, Harry doesn’t really seem to be the benchmark for sanity. 

* * *

  
“So what now? Can I go home and, you know, spend these two weeks packing and saying my tearful goodbyes?”

“I’m sorry Harry, but it isn’t safe.”

Harry pinches his wrist. It’s something he used to do when he was younger, when he was nervous, when he needed to ground himself. It’s comforting, like a child sucking his thumb (but infinitely less weird). He used get bruises there, with how often he did it. But that was then, and this is now. And Harry Evans now does not need to pinch at his own skin to gain control over his emotions (Harry Evans now does not have control over his emotions). And he is not going to let any of these pricks know that he’s nervous.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You’ve actually kidnapped me.”   
They all stare at him. Guilty? Nervous?   
“People are going to come looking for me you know. Surprisingly there’s at least a couple who give a shit. And a couple more who have a legal obligation.”

“They can be dealt with.” Replies creepy goth guy in his creepy goth voice.

“Like hell they can.” Harry bristles, despising the man’s tone.

“Perhaps you can explain to them on the ‘phone’”. The ginger guy really over pronounces the last word, and then smiles at Harry proudly. What the fuck is wrong with these people.

“Oh yeah, that classic ‘I’ve been kidnapped by a cult’ phone call. A rite of passage.” He snipes. “Besides, how is that going to get me all my stuff?”

“We can go and fetch it.” Offers alleyway creep.

“Oh yeah, rifling around in my bedroom, sniffing my underwear?”  
Alleyway creep turns bright red, and stammers into silence.

For gods sake. For gods actual sake.   
“Fine. Fucking fine.”  
Serves him right for actually bothering to make connections with people this time. 

Aman picks up on the third ring.  
“It’s Harry.”

Harry is so happy to hear his voice. He’s less happy however, that the voice is coming out of the side of the phone, magnified to the whole room. They pretend not to listen, giving him the illusion of privacy at least.

“What the fuck Evans, Jay’s been at my door asking if you’re here. Apparently he’s been calling you non stop. Would it kill you to pick up your phone?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, are you alright?”

Aman isn’t one for explicit phone conversations, and Harry isn’t one for being embarrassed by that kind of thing, but he’s suddenly conscious of the fact that everything Aman is saying can be heard. It probably wouldn’t be as bad if it was just some perverted phone sex shit, but Aman is asking if he’s okay in this soft voice, and that makes him feel infinitely more exposed.

“You’re on speaker”

“On speaker to who? What’s going on?”

“Fuck…” He should just say it. He could just say it. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I’m safe. I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be around for a while.”

“Evans you are freaking me the fuck out. I’m this close to calling the police, and you know how much I hate those fucking pigs.”

“ACAB” Harry murmurs. He’s not crying. He’s not crying. “Aman, I’m fine. It’s my family, friends of my parents.”

“Your parents? Harry you don’t give a shit about your parents.”

“I know. But I should, shouldn’t I? Like it’s a normal thing to give a shit about.”

He’s angry now, but not at Aman. Never at Aman. He gets frustrated with Aman, annoyed with Aman (and god he’s annoying), but never angry. That doesn’t seem possible. He’s angry at the situation, angry at the world for letting something like this happen. Angry at his (murdered) parents for not being there.

“This isn’t about that.” Aman is unphased by his raised voice and curt words. He pauses for a long moment, and all Harry can hear is his breathing. It’s so familiar that it’s comforting. Is it possible to know someone by the way they breathe? “Wait… does this have something to do with your powers.”

“Yes” Harry whispers, suddenly deflated.

“Shit. Shit. I fucking knew it.” Of course he knew it. Aman is smart, smarter than most give him credit for. Smarter than Harry with his 5 GCSEs. “Does it have something to do with those men?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t even know anymore.” He knows he sounds pathetic.

He can feel Aman thinking hard, over the phone. “It’s fucked man. The whole thing is fucked.”

“I know.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shit Evans, we have things planned.”

By things, Aman means the half baked plan to get a flat together and be ‘roommates’ for at least of couple of years, while he goes to college and Harry does whatever the fuck Harry is going to do. He means the hundreds of uninterrupted evenings, the freedom to just be together, the vague slice of normalcy, that they both crave.

“Well, I’m not exactly thrilled with this arrangement either.”

Aman sighs heavily. “But you’re safe. They’re going to help you?”

“I think so.”

“Then it’s a good thing.”

“That’s my life! One good thing after another!” Harry declares, with this fake brightness in his voice.

“You’d better come to see me after your cape gets fitted.”

“I don’t think I’m getting a cape.”

“You’re fit enough without it.” Harry can hear Aman smiling as he says it.

“Don’t I know it.”

They lapse into silence. So many things unsaid.   
He starts to speak, but Aman cuts across him.

“Whatever you do, don’t be getting soppy with me now.”

“Oh fuck off Aman.”  
Aman laughs, loud and raucous.

Harry hangs up.   
And it feels so much like goodbye that he think he can actually feel his heart breaking (and fucking hell if that isn’t the wettest thing he’s ever thought). 

* * *

  
Despite Harry’s earlier comment, Remus has been given the delightful task of collecting up his things.   
He’s not quite sure what’s making him more bitter. The fact that Dumbledore said no, point blank, to the prospect of Harry spending any time at all at Grimauld Place, or the fact that Harry keeps insinuating that he’s some kind of pervert. Neither of those do wonders for the self esteem. 

Stepping into Harry’s room, Remus instantly realises that it’s almost empty.

It has a bed, a wardrobe and a desk, but the sheets are plain, the walls bare, and there’s no items, no personal possessions on any of the surfaces. There’s not even any curtains for gods sake. The only things which mark this room as Harry’s are another skateboard, leant against the wall, and a tattered rucksack, hung off the bedframe.

He doesn’t have any things. He doesn’t have any possessions. He had more than this when he was a one year old, in his crib. Then he had toys, and decorations, and moving pictures on the wall. He’s lived for 16 years, and he has no stuff to show for it. It makes Remus feel incredibly sad, because Harry should have stuff. He should have memories and posters and pictures, he should have typical teenage boy clutter at least. He should have had the opportunity to collect things, to have a home. And instead all he has are white sheets, and white walls, and a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling with no lampshade.

Remus opens up the trunk regardless, tucking the skateboard and the rucksack in, surprised at how heavy it is. He doesn’t look inside, despite his curiosity. He’s a little scared of what he might find.   
He empties the clothes from the wardrobe, doing his best to fold them. There’s more than he expected, but there’s still plenty of space to spare in the trunk, even when they’re all packed. At the back of the wardrobe, there are two shoe boxes. Remus picks them both up, and he’s intending on just placing them both in the trunk, just doing what he came here to do, and not prying, because he has no right to do that, no right at all. But he’s only human, and he wants to know Harry. He wants to know Harry so badly that it hurts.

The first one is full of papers, crammed full with sheet after sheet, photos and polaroids and paperclips. He pulls a few out. There’s words and drawings, angry and dark. He recognises Harry’s likeness on one of the pages, with twisted and ugly words scrawled across it. There’s finger-paintings, with blocky, childish writing. There’s a polaroid picture of a man he doesn’t recognise, clipped to a page of writing. He’s about to read it, but then he stops himself, because it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. He replaces the lid.   
The second is taped shut, duct tape wrapped around so many times that Remus couldn’t even begin to try and open it. He knows he could use his magic, but that feels like cheating somehow.   
Both boxes go into the trunk, as does a small basket beside the bed, containing toiletries and jewellery. 

As Remus looks around the now empty room, he gets this twisted up feeling when he realises that it doesn’t really look all that different to how it did before he arrived. Harry was never really here. He wonders what kind of a life Harry had, the boy he could’ve known. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways.... please comment!


	11. The Nostalgia talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I'm going to try to update every Tuesday and Friday from now on, so we shall see how long that lasts!

Harry doesn’t even flinch when they apparate, which is quite impressive, given how nauseous it usually makes people the first time. He’s slightly pale when they arrive, swaying back and forth, but his face stays stoic and emotionless, as it has since he ended that phone call.   
McGonagall can’t help but notice this spark in his eyes, just like his father, and his mother had. But it’s different with him. More volatile, more dangerous. It’s not Lily’s spark of brilliance and intelligence, or James’ spark of mischief and slight arrogance. In Harry’s eyes it’s something entirely different. In fact, the only two emotions Harry has displayed so far are anger and a strange mixture of confidence, and assured impunity. She isn’t sure how that fares for the whole, ‘symbol of hope thing’, especially when he’s already called Albus a pervert, to his face. Despite all of that, he’s still strangely likeable. McGonagall likes him at least, and she’d like to think that she’s a good judge of character. Or maybe that’s the nostalgia talking.

“Home sweet home”, Harry smirks, as he runs his fingertips along the stone wall. McGonagall watches as the candlelight catches on his many rings, which hang heavy on his hands. “Wait, is this a castle?” The inflection of his voice barely changes when he asks a question, it’s just the same low, raspy drawling.

“Yes, it’s-“

“You guys live in actual fucking castle.”

She gives him a disapproving glare. The bad language seemed excusable when the situation was high pressure, and Harry was clearly struggling with a lot of new information, but now it’s bordering on rudeness, and she isn’t a big fan of rudeness.   
“Indeed. Now Mr Evans, we have a temporary room set up for you. Your belongings will be sent there.”

“What a treat!” He replies, with artificial brightness.

“And in the meantime, I will be assessing you to figure out how best to tackle the gaps in your magical education.”

“Oh boy, an assessment! This day keeps getting better and better! Hope I have time to study.”  
He sets off down the hall, without even checking the direction. There’s this swagger in his step, this unfounded confidence that reminds her of James a little. But he’s ruder and brasher and harsher than James ever was. McGonagall sighs heavily. She can already tell this is going to be an interesting session.

Harry sits across the desk from her, staring at her. He hasn’t even looked at the needle yet.   
It’s a simple test really, to see whether this ‘wandless magic’ thing is really all it’s cracked up to be. To see whether he actually has any control over it, or whether it’s the same as with most wizard children, raised as muggles. Uncontrollable, destructive and functionally useless.

“In your own time Mr Evans.”  
It’s less about the action of transformation, and more about the issue of focus, more about the issue of power and direction

“Why? Like why am I wasting time doing this?”

“It’s a simple test of your magical ability. Turn this needle into a matchstick.”   
She tries not to be patronising. She thinks this is the reason that the older students tend to gravitate to her: she talks to them as equals, explains things fully, shows them all due respect. In Harry’s case, she might be showing more respect than he’s strictly earned.

“No.”

“No you can’t?”

“No I don’t want to.”  
She wonders if the patronising route may have worked better, given how much he sounds like a young child in this moment. She tries to be patient, tries to be empathetic, because Harry has had a hard day, Harry has had a hard life, and none of them even fully know quite what that life has entailed. But he’s starting to grate on her, just slightly, in a way that his parents never did.

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works, Mr Evans.”

He gives her this look of utter bemusement. “Sure it is. It’s my magic, surely I can use it however I see fit?”

“Of course, but if you don’t do this, how are we supposed to help you control it?”  
The way he bristles, just slightly at that shows McGonagall that Harry wants this control, needs this control, more than he was initially letting on.

“Breathing exercises or some shit? How am I supposed to know.”

“Please Mr Evans, if you could.” She keeps her tone measured, prodding at him slightly, but without any real force behind her words. She’s no nonsense, but this isn’t just wilful defiance.

She has to keep reminding herself that however grating this behaviour is, there has to be a reason. There’s always a reason. She’s supposed to see it, she’s supposed to understand. There’s always a reason. (But there was no reason for Peter to turn on his friends, his family, and join the darkness. At least, she didn’t see one. But there had to be. She just needs to become better at noticing that sort of thing).

“So this is like easy peasy shit, you’re not setting me up to embarrass myself here?”

McGonagall doesn’t think it prudent to mention that less than a handful of wizards that she knows could perform this kind of magic without a wand, much less with no training. She just wants to see what happens. “We teach this procedure in first year.” It’s technically true, on the knifes edge of deception.

“Well in that case…”

Harry finally looks down at the needle. He furrows his brow, and seems to focus suddenly and intensely. McGonagall recognises that expression. It’s the very same one that James had plastered on his face, when he was studying for his NEWTS. _This_ scenario is so jarringly different that it hurts.

Harry doesn’t clench his jaw, or screw up his eyes, or do anything that could indicate more intense concentration, save for that furrowed brow. The needle gleams in the candlelight, and McGonagall almost smiles. With relief perhaps? Because this is normal. She’s about to move on to the next test, to see if his ‘igniting things’ trick is voluntary, when suddenly, the needle vanishes. It’s there one moment, sitting innocently on the mahogany desk, she blinks, and it’s gone. Vanished into thin air. Harry holds out his hand, and from his palm, drops a splintered, still smouldering matchstick.

“What? Where did that come from? How did you do that?”

“A magician never tells his secret.”

The smirk on his face shows that he thinks the situation is amusing, and perhaps it would be, if McGonagall could just understand what he’d done. Vanishing spells are incredibly complex, difficult to master for students his age who have had a normal education, let alone ones who haven’t had an education at all, and don’t even have a wand. But that’s only the half of it, the other question, the one she’s almost too fearful to ask, lest this situation makes even less sense, is where exactly the match came from. A summoning spell isn’t too difficult to master for the normal student, but Harry is very much not the normal student, and she can’t even begin to think of where the nearest person using a match would be, given that almost everyone in the castle doesn’t need one to start a fire.   
Instead of letting all of her fear, all of her confusion bubble up to the surface, she puts her hands neatly on the desk in front of her, trying to calm her nerves. Her voice comes out a lot louder, a lot tighter than she intended, so she stops after only saying two. “Mr Evans—"

He puts his hands up, mockingly defensive, his body language still open and languid, like this whole thing is one big joke. “Come on, I don’t know why you’re so het up about it. You had a needle, now you have a matchstick. Test over, I passed.”

“Where did the needle go, Mr Evans.”

“It doesn’t matter where the needle is. Not when you’ve got this lovely matchstick.” He stares down, seemingly surprised at the stick’s blackened appearance. “I can get you a fresh one it you want? This isn’t going to be much use.”

She keeps her tone calm, professional. “Mr Evans, the objective of the exercise was to transfigure the needle into a matchstick.”

“Did I transform the needle into a matchstick? No. But I’m not convinced that that’s like, atomically possible, but what do I know? I failed my science GCSE. I didn’t turn the needle into a matchstick, but before you had a needle, and now you have a matchstick, so… job done?”

* * *

Harry quickly learns that it was not ‘job done’, or at least not in the way she expected.   
Somehow, in a castle full of freaks, he’s still managing to stand out, still managing to draw attention to himself. She interrogates him about whatever he just did, but she doesn’t get too frustrated when he can’t properly answer, because he honestly doesn’t even know. He thinks it’s pretty obvious that he’s barely keeping a lid on it.

He likes her the most out of the new people he’s met today (his kidnappers). Goth guy, Alleyway creep, and old Mr twinkle eyes are all in joint place in the bottom of course. She’s Scottish for starters, and one of his favourite social workers was this old Scottish man. He wore a kilt (wore a kilt to deal with disadvantaged children and teenagers in inner city London), and raved about how much he hated the English, Harry being the only exception to that statement of course, and how the only reason he moved down to England was so that ‘the kiddies could finally have someone competent taking charge’. He reckons if that old coot was anything like a representative sample, that the Scottish are an alright bunch. Secondly, she’s called him ‘Evans’ right off the bat, and she hasn’t said anything strange about his parents or his family, or called him weird almost pet names like, ‘my-boy’. And finally, she’s put up with him being an utter prick, and has barely even raised her voice in the process, and that’s a win for Harry.

She dismisses him after the needle-matchstick fiasco, walking him to his rooms (yes, rooms plural), making some offhanded comments about the stairs moving, (and not like how an escalator moves, like they just switch direction at will, which is fucking stupid), and the portraits telling people directions (Harry is intent on calling Aman up and telling him that sadly he’s about to get replaced by a piece of pigmented fabric), and there being four houses (which sounds completely bent. At Harry’s old school, there were five houses, all named after classical authors. Harry outright refused to wear the house tie (because orange is so not his colour), and also because the whole thing was objectively stupid. He really hopes that it’s not such a big deal here, otherwise he’ll end up doing that stupid, ‘they’re just trying to divide and conquer us speech’, which ended in a fist fight from someone who didn’t see the funny side of it, and a detention, again).

They reach this big oak door, and she says,

“It’s been good to meet you Mr Evans. Someone will be up later to collect you when it’s time for supper.”

“Can’t wait.” He plasters this big fake smile on his face, too tired to make some snarky comment, too tired to say something uncomfortable, just to make her squirm. He just wants to go to bed, and this whole thing be a bad dream that Aman can dissect. But even Harry’s imagination isn’t this fucked, and as Aman would point out, it would be a pretty crap origin story if it ended with ‘but it was all a dream’.

She lets him into his new accommodation, which is a lot bigger than he expected, even when multiple rooms were mentioned. She gives him a quick tour of the two bedrooms (only one is for him), the bathroom, and a sort of sitting room, all plush sofas gathered around a fireplace (which is lit, despite the fact the room was vacant until moments ago). It’s decorated just how he’d expect a castle to look, all dark colours and fabric draped at strange angles. He doesn’t even have the energy to properly take in how utterly ridiculous the whole thing is.

He waves McGonagall down the hallway, keeping that stupid smile plastered wide, even though the tightness of it starts to make his jaw ache. When she’s out of sight, he pulls the door closed, and before he can get a lid on himself, before he can get a grip, he’s sliding down the polished wood on the door, and he’s a crumpled heap on the floor. He can’t move, can’t get up, can barely even breathe. He lays there for what feels like an eternity, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks, because Harry Evans is not a crier.

And nothing, not even this _shit,_ is going to change that.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and please comment!


	12. Just a destructive prick

Harry weighs up his options (when he’s finished blubbering on the floor like a baby), and he decides that he will not be leaving his ‘chambers’ this evening (he might start pretending that he’s a king, lounging around in his castle, and they’re all his loving subjects. That might make it more bearable). And anyway, he’s been hungry enough times in his life to be able to go without his ‘supper’ for one evening. He’s a big boy after all. He confirms with a look in one of the mirrors that his eyes are still entirely too red and puffy to be seen by anyone, especially by the people who have all but kidnapped him (the people he will not be showing any semblance of weakness to). He’s also experienced enough weird shit today to last him a lifetime, and he reckons that maybe he needs some time to adjust, or do whatever it is that normal, level-headed people do when faced down with life-altering revelations.

He’s still feeling a bit vindictive, (or maybe he’s just a destructive prick), so he puts his cigarette out on the bedframe, secretly delighting in the way it leaves a sloppy black smudge on the polished wood. It’s nice to leave his mark, even if the only impact he ever has is ruining things. They can probably just magic it away anyhow.

Unfortunately, the decision to skip dinner means that he’s alone with his thoughts. And it doesn’t take very long for him to start thinking (spiralling), which is never a good sign. He wishes he had something, anything, to distract him, Aman, or Jay, or some weed, or his ‘friends’ down at the skate park, or some strong alcohol, (okay, so he doesn’t exactly have healthy coping mechanisms…)

For the first time in a very long time, he finds himself thinking about his parents. He gets this strange emptiness in his chest, that he hasn’t felt since he was very little, watching the other kids get doted on at the school pickup gate. It’s strange, missing people he’s never met. But he doesn’t miss them, he misses the idea of them. The idea of a normal family and a normal life, and not being so lonely that sometimes it hurts to breathe. He misses the life he never had.

He’s felt the feeling before, the aching longing for something more like normality. He felt it last month, when Mr Holtwood had him looking through housing applications, preparing him early so that he might have a chance at getting his own government funded flat. When he stared at those tick boxes on the form, which would have laid him bare to some stranger, allowing them to make decisions about his life: where and how he’d live, he just wanted to be normal. He was so angry. So angry that it hurt. He didn’t think about his parents then, because ‘parents’ were such a non-fixture, such a non-factor, that they didn’t even come to mind. Because being alone was what he’d grown accustomed to. He was angry at the world, angry at the system, a system with no real empathy for a kid like him, a kid with no one. That anger wasn’t a one off. In fact, that feeling was more of a permanent presence in his life than any adult ‘role-model’. And sometimes, the anger even got jumbled up with jealousy and other such twisted emotions. Like whenever the home leader would take the other kids for their visitation. Because even if they only got one day every two weeks, even if it was to just to the cinema, or a supervised home visit, at least they had something. At least they had answers, at least they knew why they’d one day be filling out housing applications and praying the place they get allotted at least has furniture. Jealousy was never a pretty colour on him.

But Harry isn’t jealous, or angry, now. No. This time he’s hollow, so hollow that the things he’s learned today, all of the new thoughts and facts, rattle around inside him (like he’s some sort of a fucked up snow globe). He can’t stop thinking. Can’t stop thinking about the fact that these people knew his parents. Thinking about the fact that his parents were apparently murdered. They were murdered. They didn’t neglect him, or hurt him, or abandon him in some gutter. They were murdered. They didn’t even get the chance to be better, to make Harry better, because they were murdered. They’re dead, and it’s not even their fault. It doesn’t necessarily make him feel better, or worse. It just makes him feel… barren. 

There’s a lot of gaps still, a lot of things which don’t quite add up. He still doesn’t know who they were, what they were like, how they were murdered, how Harry ended up outside a fire-station (unable to string a coherent sentence together) at four years old. The questions leave him feeling even more blank, even more empty.

So he lays on the bed (which has curtains. His bed has curtains for some insane reason), and he thinks about his parents, and he thinks about the life that he could have had. He wonders if it’s possible to be nostalgic for something which never existed. He really hopes the thoughts, and the feelings that come with them (the ones which ripple and rattle up against the abject emptiness), leave soon, because they’re starting to take their toll. But by taking their toll, he doesn’t mean that he’s about to start crying. He doesn’t cry, because Harry Evans is not a crier. He’s not. 

* * *

  
Remus is asked to go and fetch Harry for dinner. He feels this instant pit of dread in his stomach, which he then feels incredibly guilty about. But the way that Harry speaks to him? He knows it’s pathetic and fragile of him, but it hurts his feelings. He knows, on every level, that this situation isn’t about him, isn’t about his feelings, or his wounded pride, it isn’t about his reconciliation with James and Lily’s son. But still, it stings to have his hopes shattered so completely.   
Harry does not like him. Harry is rude, and abrasive, and he seems to say things with the sole intention of pissing people off. In short, he acts exactly like James, if James had been an unlikable prick. And okay, that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair because Harry is young, and the whole thing is probably just a defensive mechanism, and Remus is not stooping to the petty level of a sixteen-year boy, even if the pervert comments are getting on his last nerve. 

He knocks on the door.

“Fuck off” Is the instant reply. Harry’s voice is low and raspy as ever, which probably has something to do with his ‘pack-a-day’ habit, but there’s a sort of thickness about it that Remus doesn’t recognise, not that he really recognises, or knows anything to do with Harry.

“Are you alright?”

“Peachy.” He pops the ‘P’.

“Harry, I understand this is a lot…”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.”  
Harry suddenly sounds so exhausted. He’s much closer to the door now, Remus can hear him breathing softly through the gap where it doesn’t quite meet the frame.

“Sorry.”  
They lapse into uncomfortable silence, and Remus is about to make his excuses and leave, when Harry speaks, in this tentative voice.

“Um, what was my dad called?”

Remus isn’t expecting that question, not after all of the ‘I don’t give a shit about my parents’ nonsense which Harry was spouting earlier.   
He clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious, “He was called James, James Potter. He was my best friend, well him and Sirius.”

Harry makes this strange, strangled sound, but covers it up by dismissively saying, “Alright, I didn’t ask for your life story did I?”. But there’s no real bite behind his words, it’s almost like he’s just going through the motions of being rude. “Bit of a plain name isn’t it, compared to Dumble-Wumble?”

“I guess James just got lucky.”

Harry lets out a soft puff of air, which could be a laugh.

It encourages Remus to continue. “We called him Prongs.”

“Ew. I do not want to know why.” Harry’s tone seems to suggest that he didn’t want to know anything about his dad’s nickname at all. But he manages to surprise Remus yet again. “And my mum?”

“Lily Evans.” Remus doesn’t tack any more information onto the end of that, figuring that Harry can just ask when he’s ready.

“That’s a nice name.” And God, he sounds almost wistful. Remus cannot reconcile this Harry with the spitting swearing boy they met earlier. “Were they… good?”

“They were the best. I just-“, Remus swallows back his tears. He’s has plenty of time to cry over this, “I wish you could’ve known them.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, a quiet confession, “Me too.”

The words hang in the air for a moment too long, and Remus can’t think of anything to say. He can’t think of anything that will gulf the gap between them. When Remus doesn’t quite know what to do, he tends to panic slightly, and start blabbering.   
“Are you hungry? I bet you’re hungry. Would you like something to eat?”

And just like that, the (metaphorical) spell is broken.

Harry scoffs, and Remus can hear him moving away from the door, like he’s trying to get some distance between him and the conversation they just had. “Nah. I don’t fancy breaking bread with a bunch of you pointy hatted loonies.”

“Fair enough. I can bring you something up?”

“Got any baklava?” Remus can almost hear the smile in his voice, like it’s an inside joke with himself.

“No, sorry.”  
He doesn’t imagine that the House Elves are in the habit of making that sort of thing. Perhaps he could put in a request at some point?

“What kind of kidnappers are you?” Harry responds, mockingly affronted, “Next you’re gonna tell me I can’t see my friends… oh wait”. There’s too much bitterness for that to be joke.

Remus decides to extend the olive branch. “I really am sorry Harry, for what it’s worth.”   
He hopes Harry can hear how sincere he is.

“Unfortunately I only accept apologies of the pastry variety.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He walks away feeling the strangest mixture of being a hundred pounds lighter (because Harry doesn’t fully hate him), but also having a strange heaviness in his bones (because he doesn’t know how to help Harry, who is profoundly hurting, and doesn’t really seem like the type to seek assistance).

After dinner, he leaves a slice of pumpkin pie outside Harry’s door, and pretends that it’s enough.

It isn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and let me know what you think!


	13. Survival of the fittest

The sun hasn’t even risen on Harry’s first day in this godforsaken castle, and he’s already more than halfway through his baccy, and is running painfully low on Rizzlers. Between his shaking fingers, and his sudden compulsive need to be busy doing something, anything, the little impulse control that he had went up in smoke (hah). So he wakes (not that he slept for more than one hour consecutively), in a bad mood. As most people (expect Aman) would attest, Harry Evans doesn’t really have ‘good moods’. He’s either pissed off, or he’s pissing people off. But this morning, he’s more on the side of the scale where he spits and swears and screams, rather than just scowls. He really just wants to hit something (or someone).

He decides to compartmentalise, and pretend that his bad mood is entirely due to his lack of rolling papers, and in no way associated with the fucking insane events of the previous day. It’s not hard. There’s only so much shit that one person can deal with, and Harry Evans is at capacity. It just seems a bit pathetic that the thing to push him over the edge would be a lack of fags. As he laces his shoes up, he decides that he’s going to go to the nearest town, buy his rolling papers, get insanely high, and then hitchhike home (like home home, London home (he already misses the smoggy air for fucks sake)). The whole ‘magical family cult’ stuff was fun and all yesterday (well, less fun, and more the cause of two separate meltdowns), but in the light of the day? Harry does not want to be called to the witness stand when the whole cult participates in a mass suicide, or gets cut up into pieces by old Dumbledoo. Cults never end well, and he’s a bit concerned that his initiation has already started (what with the needle-match thing, and the sappy conversation (which he did NOT start), and the pumpkin pie). Despite his ability to land on his feet (Jay used to say he was like a cat with nine lives), he is not going to risk this one. ‘Don’t mess with cults’ is one of his personal rules. Harry Evans is not getting brainwashed.

So the first pro of his plan is: ‘not getting murdered by a bunch of hippies’, and the second pro is that if he gets high enough, he’s pretty sure that he won’t be able to set anything on fire (at least not unintentionally). Weed mellows him and evens him out, or as Jay would put it, ‘makes him more bearable’, and when he’s calm, his thoughts stop racing so much (except for that one time where he had a bad strain and his bones felt like they were jelly and he forgot how to breathe and it felt like there were spiders crawling through his veins). The past twenty four hours (and holy fuck has it only been a day?) have felt like a bad trip, and god does he hope it wears off soon. His bad mood lifts slightly as he considers his plan for the day, which begins with ‘getting the fuck out of here’, and ends with ‘shagging Aman’.

He doubts they’ll even notice he’s gone.

They notice.

It’s unfortunate really. If they weren’t so fucking clingy, he could’ve gotten away. He’s pretty adept at sneaking out of places (one of the perks of having a tragic, tortured past). In fact, he makes it out of a side door (incredible lockpicker that he is), and he’s halfway across this scrappy bit of grass, when he hears this cracking sound behind him. That sort of cracking noise is never a good sign. It sort of sounds like a knuckleduster hitting against a lamppost, but clearly isn’t, because not only are there no telegraph poles at this actual castle, but Harry has only met two people in his life who wear fucking brass knuckles, and the idea of either of them being here is almost as ridiculous as Dumbledoo’s outfit.

“Mr Potter.”  
The voice is dry and affected, and can only belong to one man. Weirdly, it puts Harry in a much better mood. He just really likes pissing people off, pushing their buttons, and this guys buttons aren’t all that hard to find.

“Goth-guy!”  
And there he is, in all of his greasy glory.   
Come to think of it, there wasn’t a shower in his rooms. Maybe that’s where this cult is going wrong, not the kidnapping of teenagers, but the lack of bathing facilities.

Goth-guy doesn’t seem to like his nickname, based on the way that he scowls at Harry.   
“My name.” he pauses for effect (or maybe because he’s forgotten), “Is Professor Snape.”

“What was your PhD?”

“I beg your pardon.”  
Harry can almost hear the venom in his voice. Poor Snape is so angry that his cheeks have gone a bit red, and reminds Harry of that joke about the sunburnt penguin.

“I may be some poor uneducated orphan, but even I know that to be a Professor you’ve gotta have a doctorate.” (He only knows that because Aman’s going to get one. He’s going to go to university and do a degree and a masters and a PhD, and then probably cure cancer or save the world or something). “So what was it on?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Mr Potter.”

“And I don’t ‘appreciate’ you fibbing about your title!”

“You are just like your father.”

“Reckon I’m a bit more lively, aren’t I?”

Snape opens his mouth, and then closes it again, seeming to be at a loss for words. Or maybe he’s doing that ‘rising above it’ bullshit. The lack of response really irritates Harry. There’s no point in getting people all riled up if they don’t do anything.

“Well anyway, it’s been lovely to chat to you, but I really must be going.”  
He puts on this affected posh voice, mocking everyone and no one in particular simultaneously. Snape doesn’t seem to find it very funny, but Harry counts that as a win.

There’s another cracking sound, but he pays it no mind, turning to leave. He hopes that Snape doesn’t bother following him. It’s just his fucking luck, because standing right behind him are Dumbledoo and Alleyway creep (a nickname which is beginning to feel a little mean). He’s not sure how the fuck they got there so quickly, whether a part of being in this insane cult is teleporting and appearing out of thin air, but he bares his teeth in an approximation of a smile.

“Glad you could join the party, boys!”  
He does this thing with his voice where he makes it all dark and low. He hopes that they find it as off-putting as his old social worker did.

“Where are you going, Harry?”  
Dumbledoo asks, all gentle and concerned, completely ignoring his half-baked intimidation tactic.

“Here, there and everywhere!”  
He waves his hands around to emphasise the point.

“Harry”  
Dumbledoo’s tone is warning, but Harry would like to see them fucking try to stop him. What are they going to do? Take him away from his friends? Twist him all up in emotional knots? Knock him out and give him another sofa to set on fire?

“How did you even know I was out and about?”

“There are wards, all around Hogwarts, for your protection.”  
A fucking security system stopping people from leaving? Oh this is officially, officially a cult.

“I can hold my own.”

“Right.” Alleyway creep gives him this incredulous look, as if to say ‘I bet you can’t’, but Harry just glares back at him. As if he has anything to prove to this man.

“Well, there’s some students here who aren’t able to”

“Survival of the fittest” Harry motions at himself, to emphasise the double meaning of that last word. “Anyway, I wasn’t leaving” (he was, and it’s clearly evidenced by the bag on his back and the box tucked under his arm), “how could I possibly leave now that I have such a special connection with all of you?” He catches Snape’s eye, and gives him an exuberant wink. Based on his grimace, the guy isn’t much of a fan of that either (there’s no winning with some people).

“Where were you going?”  
Dumbledoo asks again, as if he’s suddenly going to catch Harry out and get him to tell the truth.

“So nosy”

“Harry…”  
It’s that same stupid warning tone, as if Dumbledoo has any form of control or power over Harry. (Spoiler: he doesn’t).

“To get some supplies.” He lets out a soft chuckle, with no humour in it, “You lot really need a hobby which isn’t following a teenage boy around.”

“You do understand that it’s not safe for you to go out alone?”  
Dumbledoo tries the patronising approach, as if he’s speaking to some eleven year old child. At this point, Harry almost wishes it was just him and Goth-guy again.

“Can’t hear you, sorry.”  
He begins to walk away as he says it, figuring that aiming towards the treeline up ahead is as good a plan as any. He amends his destination from ‘the nearest town’, to ‘as far away from here as possible’.

“Harry, please listen to reason.”

He hears footfalls behind him, and he realises that they’re actually following him. He has no fucking idea what it is with these people and pursuing him when he’s actively avoiding them. Maybe it’s another cult thing. He’s about to get angry (well, more angry), but then he remembers how well that went the last time (when he ended up kidnapped on a fucking sofa), so he tries his best to swallow it down, to not snap or shout or scream (or set anything on fire). He hopes that the school counsellor (Alisha), would be proud of him, he didn’t even have to count to ten.

“I’m listening, but you’ve not said a single reasonable thing since I got here.”

Dumbledoo’s face gets all scrunched up, “You can’t leave Harry, it just isn’t safe.”

“Right… it’s not safe for me to go alone, so someone will come with me? You guys are so fucking dense, I swear.”

He sees them exchange glances, and he wants to fucking scream. The whole thing is so stupid. There’s not a single person here who will listen to him. None of them are treating him like a fucking person, more like a problem, or a project, or a memory. He’s used to being pushed aside, he’s used to people going over his head, and doing things without his permission (like every new social worker, every new placement, every fucking person who ever lost their temper with him), but it still hurts. It still hurts to not be treated like he’s not really there.

This whole thing is insane, and confusing, and overwhelming, and they’re just watching him drown in it. And that, more than anything, makes him want to drag them under with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I saw that PHD thing on a post and I needed it in here.
> 
> Anyways... please comment and let me know what you think!
> 
> Also I have made a tumblr I don't know how it works but please follow me and speak to me (@gooseonthe-loose)


	14. Impossible to guess

As Severus stands on the grass, glowering over at Harry, he realises that he might not be his father’s son after all. He doesn’t like him, not by any means. In fact, he just might hate him, but it feels so messy and complicated to try to untangle the jumbled threads of his precise emotions. But he’s not the same as James, he’s not a Potter after all. But despite Harry’s insistences, he can’t bring himself to call him Evans, because Evans was _her_ name, only ever hers, and it’s still strangely sacred. Severus can’t even begin to contemplate her.

Harry suddenly drops to the ground, the taped up box under his arm hitting the ground with a thud, and then he’s sitting cross legged on the grass, seemingly unbothered by the morning dew.   
“If you won’t let me go”, he says, with a strange tightness in his voice, like he’s holding something back, “then I’ll just be staying right here.”

“Harry”, Albus smiles sadly. Severus has been at the receiving end of those smiles more times than he can remember, “It just isn’t safe for you to be out.”

Harry finds that very funny for some reason, tipping back his head and laughing darkly.   
“I’m trembling in fear, I am”

“Harry, this isn’t some joke, these are very dangerous men.”  
Severus doesn’t miss the way that Albus’ eyes flicker over to him, to the mark hidden under his robes. Dangerous indeed.

“And women as well I’m sure!” Harry tuts disappointedly, leaning back on his palms, as if to survey Albus. “Don’t be a sexist.”

Severus doesn’t miss the way that Lupin stifles a laugh, pretending to clear his throat.

“Harry. Your life is in danger. I don’t think it’s the best idea for you to leave. You might be spotted, or hurt. I can’t justify that risk.”  
Spotted, or hurt. Interesting to say them in that order.

“Well I can, and I’m going.”

“Harry…”

“For fucks sake. It’s dangerous, I get it. I’m still going.”

Severus hears the anger rising in his voice again. The whole time it’s been on the knife’s edge, and now it’s rearing its ugly head again. He seems strangely attached to this plan of leaving. Either he doesn’t believe them about the risk, or he puts no value on his own safety. The thought that it might be the second makes Severus angry. The thought that his life, a life that Lily died to protect, means so little? How dare Harry behave so flippantly?

“Why do you even want to go?”  
Severus makes sure to ask as venomously as possible, so Harry feels the full impact of his rage.

Harry responds in equal measure, rising to his feet, and all but yelling.   
“I don’t fucking know! To get some school supplies or some shit? To explore my newfound fucking ‘culture’?” He puts a strange emphasis on the first part of the word. “To get out of this godforsaken castle, because I’m getting a fucking migraine.”

To emphasize the last point, Harry puts his hand on his forehead and pretends to swoon. Albus stares, long and hard, his eyes focused on where Harry’s hand is still resting. Something indescribable flashes in his eyes, and then he nods, with a slow certainty.

“Fine. But someone will have to come with you, and there’s some precautions that you’ll have to take.”

* * *

  
Harry’s head is still reeling slightly from the ‘apparition’ (it’s literally just teleporting, he’s not sure why they need the fancy name for it). His ‘disguise’ seems a bit fucking ridiculous, the turban on his head (which Dumbledoo insisted had to cover his scar), feels like it’s bordering on the wrong side of cultural appropriation (even for a brown guy), and he’s a bit concerned that the ‘robes’ are going to lead to more than just a few strange looks, but at least he’s out of that castle.   
Although, on second thought, this isn’t the London that he recognises, none of the traffic and the graffiti and the corner stores. It’s all cobblestones and wooden signs and curved glass, the buildings wonky in a way which pisses him off (it isn’t quirky or charming, it’s just fucking impractical). The air even somehow tastes different, almost static on his tongue.

Alleyway creep keeps asking if he’s alright. It’s up to five times now, and the answer of ‘fuck off’ hasn’t seemed to satisfy him a single one of them. The real answer, the real and honest truth is ‘No. No and I don’t think I’ll ever be alright again’, but it’s not as if he’s going to say that out loud. He’s got a reputation to protect after all.

“Would Dumbledoo have put me in a turban if I was white?”

He asks, as a way to fill the silence. He also does sort of want to know, because the weight of it on his head is leaving a strange flavour in his mouth.   
He remembers his best friend, Tanvir, from when he was about ten. He remembers Tanvir’s father, who was big and round, who always wore an orange turban and a smile. He remembers the Patka that Tanvir wore, like a badge of honour on his head.  
He always thought that he might be like that, might be like them. When he and Tanvir put their arms side by side, their skin was almost the exact same colour, and Tanvir’s father had eyes almost as light as Harry’s own. Tanvir’s hair was always covered, so he never knew if it was curly and unruly, but he knew that it was long, almost down past his shoulder blades. (After they moved him, Harry grew his hair to chin-length, wondering if maybe that was the missing piece). Tanvir and his father weren’t the first time that he saw himself in others, in that area especially he saw traces of himself in nearly every face that passed. But it was the first time he started to want it, the first time he started to chase that feeling of belonging. When he tried to craft his own Patka, from some fabric he found, but it never quite worked. It was never quite right. And now the feeling of wrongness has returned, with a vengeance. Because he shouldn’t be wearing this. He hasn’t earned it, it isn’t his to put on, like a costume.  
(Wearing it as a disguise feels as wrong as wearing it to belong did (and the both of them feel just as pathetic as the other).

“Pardon?”  
It’s about the whitest response he could’ve got to that question. The whole thing gives him an idea. He could just… ask. Just one little question, and then he’d have the answers he’s been craving.

He does his best to keep his voice light, unbothered, uncaring. “What am I anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m clearly not white, so what am I?”

Alleyway creep gets that look on his face which white people get when you bring up race, distinctly uncomfortable, desperate to not misstep and say something offensive, and it takes everything in Harry not to point it out.

The man’s voice is measured, careful.   
“Your mother was white, and your father was originally from India.”

Harry nods casually in response, as if that isn’t the solution to about a million identity crises that he’s had, and the millions of microaggressions that he’s been subjected to. (You’re at least part black, look at your hair. You’re definitely from the middle east, look at your nose. You’re part Asian for sure, look at the way your eyelids are shaped.)  
Harry’s been from Yemen, he’s been from Indonesia, he’s been from Mexico, he’s been from Pakistan, he’s been from Turkey, he’s been from Egypt. He’s been from everywhere, and from nowhere. And now the question is answered.

Half Indian and half white.   
So painfully, stupidly obvious and yet so impossible to guess.

He tries to shrug off the effect that the revelation has on him.   
“Wow!” he says, as brightly as possible, “The number of slurs I’ve been called which aren’t even accurate.”

Alleyway creep smiles so sadly at him that he almost feels sick. (He does NOT need to be dealing with that white guilt right now).

“So if I was fully white, would Dumbledoo still have me wearing this right now?”

Alleyway creep sighs, “Probably.”

That about checks out. 

  
***

When they turn the corner, Harry can see a man waiting at the end of the street. He’s standing strangely awkwardly, like he’s a scarecrow or something, all pinned up with sticks and poles. Harry knows plenty of kids like that, who’s bones don’t quite seem to fit in their skin, who fidget and shuffle and scrabble, and never quite belong. He used to be one of those kids himself, (probably still is, deep down).

As they get closer, Harry finds himself scrutinising the man’s face (Aman would call him shallow, and he’d probably be right). The man’s features are average enough, a strong nose, hooded eyes, an angular jaw, but somehow when they’re pulled together, they don’t quite look right. There’s something off about them, which makes Harry think that there might be something off about this man (Harry is exceedingly good at judging the book by it’s cover).

“Who’s this?”

Alleyway guy (a kinder way to refer to a man who really isn't all that creepy) smiles (does his mouth ever get tired from doing it all the fucking time?), and he looks so soft and mushy. “This is Sirius.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “And who is Sirius?”

“A friend.” Replies Alleyway guy, his words careful and measured.

“Your friend I assume. I don’t believe I’ve ever made his acquaintance.” Harry replies, mocking the guy’s serious tone.

The man in front of them (who’s name Harry has unfortunately already forgotten) doesn’t object to being spoken about as if he isn’t there, he just stares at Harry, with a strangely intense expression in his weird looking eyes.   
“Hello Harry.”  
The man almost sounds nervous, but not in the way that Harry enjoys.

“Howdy.” Harry decides to put on an American accent for some fucking reason. (Sometimes he wonders how anyone stands being in the same room as him.)

“It’s nice to meet you.” The man says hesitantly, like he’s treading on eggshells.  
Harry briefly wonders why, and then he remembers the setting-things-on-fire trick that he pulled, and the fact that he’s been so angry that it ripples in the air. That might explain this random man’s apprehension. “Under the circumstances.” The man adds pointedly, giving Alleyway guy a strange look.

Harry waves it off dismissively, “Such is the life of an abused orphan wretch.”

The man opens his mouth, and then closes it again.   
He looks so sad that Harry almost feels bad. Almost.

Alleyway guy speaks up again, “We’ve got some school supplies to get for you, Harry.”

“School supplies? What supplies could you possibly fucking need to do magic tricks?”

“What… what did you think we were here to do?”

“Buy things I actually need.”

He decides not to elaborate on that. Alleyway guy seems like he’d be the type to lecture him on the dangers of tobacco use (and yes he knows, it’s in bold on every fucking packet), but there’s worse things he could be doing (and has done). 

Alleyway guy looks at the mystery man again (they really can’t seem to keep their eyes off each other), and the man gives him this soft, tender smile. Harry wonders how he only just noticed how close together they’re standing, almost touching, but not quite. And the not quite seems like a very conscious decision. And oh. _Oh_. A friend indeed.

“We’ve just some things on this list to get, and then we can go to find whatever you need.”

“Like I’m stepping out into the _normal_ part of London dressed like fucking this.” He turns to the mystery man, as if for affirmation, “Does this outfit look normal to you in any way?”

“No.” Mystery man looks him up and down, taking in the robes (yes, Harry is wearing fucking robes) with the weird drapey sleeves and the strange intricate patterning. “Did Dumbledore make you wear that?” he motions at the lovely piece of cultural disrespect placed on his head.

“Oh he sure did!”

“Stupid old git.”

Harry laughs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and let me know what you think!


	15. Very Multifacated

Remus can see the way that Harry’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them, and he’s pretty sure that Harry knows what they are to each other by now.   
They don’t try to hide it exactly, but werewolf, plus convicted criminal, times being gay, does not equal a lot of trust instilled. (Although with the quick modifications to Sirius’ features, he’s almost unrecognisable at this point).

But Harry could tell within moments, and it makes Remus think of that phone conversation he had, back at the burrow, makes him think of the other boy’s voice, softened with concern and genuine care. And just like that, two more dots of Harry connect, he knows him just a little bit better.

He scans through the list of supplies that Dumbledore gave him. All of the things on it are easy enough for him to locate on his own, when he’s not out in public with a wanted criminal, and a missing celebrity. That just leaves the wand, and the robes.   
Robe fitting is complicated, it will require Harry to at least partially remove his ‘disguise’, which runs the risk of him getting recognised, and it’s too dangerous for that, as delicate and volatile as he is. And the wand?   
To be honest, Remus is afraid of what will happen when Harry gets his hands on a wand. The things he can do without one? Well. Remus is thankful, for the first time in a while, that he’s no longer a teacher at Hogwarts, because he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of what might happen.

(The answer to ‘what might happen’ is much less dramatic than Remus feared).

They walk to the wand shop, Sirius and Harry falling into pace easily.

“A wand. Like a magic black and white stick that you wave around?”

“No, it’s made of like, wood.”

“Jesus fuck, this shit is so stupid.”

“At least you’ve got a point of reference! Until a few years ago this was all I’d ever known.”  
Harry looks at Sirius curiously, but doesn’t ask ‘what happened a few years ago?’, and Remus can’t tell whether it’s out of apathy, or politeness.

“Fine. Let’s go and get the magic stick, and maybe later I can buy myself a pointy fucking hat.”

Remus decides that now is not the best time to mention that ‘a pointy fucking hat’ is in the school uniform requirements. 

* * *

  
The men are strange. Very strange.   
One is Remus Lupin, looking older and more world worn than he ever did. Ollivander remembers his wand well, 10 ¼, Unicorn Hair, Cypress.   
He doesn’t recognise the other two, although one of them is dressed in foreign attire, so is likely not from these parts. He’s picking at his wrist, and pointedly ignoring his surroundings. The other man is long and lanky, and is trying to casually lean against a countertop. The collection of the three of them is very strange indeed. Very suspicious, although he doesn’t know quite how yet.

Remus Lupin is the only one to speak. “He’d like a wand please.” And he gestures at the foreign man, who makes a very strange sound. He doesn’t ask why this man doesn’t already have a wand, because he imagines that it may be a rather tricky story to tell, and it’s already so strangely tense. The man he doesn’t recognise smiles at him politely, but there’s something about him, something very nervous. Why are they nervous to be in a wand shop?

“I’m just going to take some measurements sir, if you don’t mind”  
He speaks to the foreign man slowly and clearly, in case he doesn’t understand. It’s best to be safe, with this sort of thing. Matching wands to owners is a tricky business after all.

“Do what you want” Replies the foreign man, in an accent which clearly marks him as not foreign. In fact, he sounds as if he came from the Muggle part of London (a place which Ollivander does not often frequent).

It’s very strange indeed.   
He makes his measurements quickly, taking a little time to scrutinise the not-foreign man further. Now he does look familiar. Almost painfully so, especially up close. It takes a moment for it to click, but when it does, it feels like a weight has been lifted, relief flooding over him as he fully understands the situation again.

“I wondered when I’d be seeing you Mr Potter.”

Remus Lupin and the other man look panicked, but Harry Potter seems totally unphased.   
“I actually go by Harry Evans, sir.”

Harry Evans. Ollivander chuckles to himself. It doesn’t really have quite the same ring to it, ‘The legend of Harry _Evans_.’

“It seems only yesterday that your parents were here, getting their first wands.”

A strange look flashes across Harry Evans’ face.   
“Don’t be getting all nostalgic.”  
It seems like a strange thing to say in response, but no matter.

Ollivander thinks he might know just the wand. 10 inches, Unicorn core, Pine. He doesn’t use Pine often, but it works well for an independent, mysterious master, and Harry seems to fit that bill.

As he hands the wand over, he sees Remus Lupin flinch slightly, and brace himself.  
Nothing happens.

“Shake it around”

“Seriously? As if I could look like any more of a twat.”

Absolutely nothing happens.   
Nothing breaks, or shatters, or falls down. The wand sits docile in Harry Evans’ hand, as if it were just a twig after all.

He snatches it back. Perhaps he’s playing it too safe with the Unicorn hair, they don’t tend to make the most powerful wands after all.   
The next wand, 11 inches, Dragon’s heartstring, Fir, makes even more sense. His grandfather had always called Fir ‘the survivors wood’, and Harry Evans is nothing if not a survivor.   
But again, nothing. The wand sits, useless in his hand.

10 ½ inches, Cypress, Unicorn hair also yields no results. He tries not to feel a little relief at that. The connotations between Cypress wands and dying a heroic death are all too present, and Harry Evans is a little young to die, although things aren’t looking so good in those regards. (Following that logic, things also aren’t looking so good for Remus Lupin, but then he always was the hero type).

The relief is outweighed by the frustration. The wands aren’t just not working for Harry, they seem to not be working at all. It’s very peculiar.  
11 inches, Holly, Phoenix feather. The wand has a sister, and he can’t help but think about the owner of the wand with a very similar core. A core that was used to slaughter Harry’s own parents. He places the wand in Harry’s hands, gingerly. He expects something. Expects the wand to recognise him somehow.   
It does not.

“This is getting fucking ridiculous. Can’t I just have one of these sticks?”

“Don’t be rude Harry.” Remus Lupin chides, in a vaguely fatherly way.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

And he wonders.   
Red oak would make sense, with Harry’s apparent quick temper, but he wonders.   
10 inches, Willow, Dragon’s heartstring.   
He hands it to Harry, who snatches it away quickly, waving it around. Nothing. Nothing, again. Not even a gust of wind, or a spark, or anything.

“I’ll take it.”

“Harry, that isn’t how this works.”

“Hell if I fucking care. Out of the sticks you’ve made hold, this one’s my favourite. I’ll take it.”

“Mr Evans”, Says Ollivander carefully, “I’m afraid that the wand choses the wizard, not the other way around.”

“Well that’s too fucking bad, because I’m having this one, or none of them. Now excuse me, I’m gonna go and have a fag.”

And just like that, he’s gone, with the unknown man following closely behind him.   
He lets Remus Lupin buy the wand after all, waving off his apologies. Perhaps in this case, the wizard chose the wand. And an interesting wand he chose indeed. Willow, the wood of hidden insecurity.

* * *

“Harry.”  
Sirius says it softly. The last thing this situation needs is more anger.

Sirius finds that he likes Harry, genuinely likes him, despite the fact that he’s a little bit of a jerk. Or maybe he likes him because he’s a jerk.

“Don’t start on me. That was fucking stupid.” Harry blows a puff of smoke out into the air, sighing dramatically. “Or maybe I just needed some nicotine.”

Sirius is about to make a comment about everyone having their vices, but then he realises that the struggles of an ex-convict who is only three years out of prison probably aren’t all that relatable to a teenage boy, no matter how rough his childhood was.

“You know that wand’s going to be useless for you?”

“I would’ve lost my shit even more if it had worked.”  
The way Harry says it, low and fragile, it seems almost like a confession, an admission of terror, that he’s completely and utterly out of his depth.   
And god, all Sirius wants to do is help him.

“Okay.” He replies, even though it isn’t.   
There’s nothing more he can say. There’s no way he can make this better.

If only he had a time turner and a feasible way to go back to that moment right before he convinced James to make Peter the Secret Keeper. That’s the only thing he could possibly do to right all the mistakes he’s made, all the pain he’s caused.

Harry’s eyes scan the street, and his lips are all downturned and miserable, like a clown (and yes, Sirius now knows all about clowns) with it’s smile the wrong way up. Suddenly, his eyes light up.

“Is that a pet shop.” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Can I go?

“Why?”

“Because I fucking like animals? What other reason would there be?”

“I don’t know, you don’t really strike me as an animal lover.”

“Well I’ll have you know, I’m very multifaceted.”

“We can go when Remus gets here.”

Harry mouths ‘Remus’ back to himself, and then does this strange sort of shrug.

Mentioning Remus is making Sirius start to wonder what is taking him so long. And the wondering very quickly becomes worrying. Because all Sirius ever seems to do is worry, and panic, and spiral. And before he knows it, he’s half convinced himself that Remus is dead in some alleyway, and that Harry is next to go. The silence stretches on, as Sirius tries to gather himself and be reasonable. Somewhere along the way, Harry begins to hum tunelessly.

“What a beautiful song!” Sirius declares, half mockingly. He hopes the way his voice cracked in the middle wasn’t too obvious. 

“Shut up. You can’t bully me, I’m ‘going through things’”. Harry draws air quotations in the air with a ridiculous amount of flourish.

“I was Sirius.”

Harry rolls his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “You aren’t funny.

“No, I’m not funny, I’m Sirius.”

“Stop recycling jokes.”

“I’m not joking, I’m Sirius.”

And suddenly they’re laughing, him and Harry, Harry and him. They’re laughing so hard that it hurts. And for just a moment, they’re normal. Godfather and Godson. The way they were supposed to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I look on the like fan wiki wand thing for an unreasonable amount of time? Yes.  
> Did I love the thought that went into making all the descriptions? Yes.   
> Do I hate TERFS regardless? Yes. 
> 
> Anyways... please comment and lmk what you think!


	16. Fever dream come to life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry visits the pet shop!!

“Wow… so animals talk now? This is an actual fucking fever dream come to life.”

The snake stares at him. He doesn’t know anything about snakes, but he thinks that this one is quite pretty, it’s this bright, bright green colour that almost shouldn’t exist in nature (and he’s one to talk), with faint yellow speckles. It also just spoke as he walked past. He’s sure it did. This sharp hissing voice which said something about a mealtime.

“Oh and as soon as I mention it, you choose this exact moment to zip it, and now I’m the crazy guy telling a snake off.”

 _“What is the meaning of this?”_  
The snake stares at him, unblinking. Can snakes blink? (Hell if Harry fucking knows)

“Ah! He speaks!”  
And Harry can’t tell if he’s relieved or not. Because on one hand, he’s not just hearing voices (he knows that that would be a sign of something very bad), but on the other hand, a snake is speaking to him. And last he checked, snakes aren’t in the list of animals which talk (the list being: humans and parrots).

_“I have always spoken. But you? I have never met another like you.”_

“Another what? Another ‘wizard’? Because that seems unlikely, given the fact you live in a ‘magical’ pet shop.”

_“One who understands us and can speak back.”_

“Oh cool. I really am the loony in the corner having a chat with a reptile. What a great first impression! Guess I won’t need to make any new friends now seeing as we’ve hit it off.”  
Harry didn’t really imagine he’d be inclined to, or able to, make any friends anyway.

_“I suppose you will make a suitable companion.”_

“Just suitable? Wow. Way to make a gal feel special.”

The snake just stares at him, not even affording that a response.

“You know… I’ve never actually seen a snake in real life before. My friend Jay thought he found one under his bed once, but it was this electric cable that some rats had got to.”

_“Why are you telling me this inane tale?”_

To be fair to the snake (to be fair to the snake, what the fuck), he is a lot more talkative than usual (or the new usual for him). Maybe it’s just the excitement of being able to understand an actual animal. Or maybe this snake (oh god he’s talking to an actual fucking snake. Aman would have a fucking field day) is just a 'really good listener'.

“Wow… if this is going to work, you’re gonna have to at least pretend to care about my incredible anecdotes.”

The snake huffs.

Harry decides he’s going to at least try to get to know this snake (what is happening to his life) before he buys it (well, takes it, because he’s not exactly rolling in money right now).   
“What’s your name?”

Good icebreaker. He could ask anything, anything at all, ‘What’s it like being a snake?’, ‘What do mice taste like?’ (assuming that snakes do in fact eat mice), ‘How are we speaking to each other right now?’, and he settled on asking it’s fucking name.

_“I have no need for something so trivial”_

“Right. So what am I meant to call you then?”

The snake huffs again. _“You can call me Jay.”_

“Jay as in the name of my friend, that I literally just mentioned?”

_“Yes. I like it. You will call me Jay.”_

“Yeah, no offence mate but I’m not calling you the same name as my best friend.” He’s barely thought about Jay since he left. His thoughts have been occupied by Aman, the fact he’s going crazy, Aman, his dead parents, Aman, and his ‘magic’ spiralling out of control. But referring Jay as his best friend? It feels strangely significant. (Something to file away for later).

_“Then call me…. Shay.”_

“God you’re really going to piss me off.”

He says it fondly. Is he fond of this snake? He could be. His issues (not that he has issues) with forming emotional attachments don’t seem to be extending to reptiles.

***

He leaves the pet shop with Shay up his sleeve. It was remarkably easy to just open the tank, and Shay was very eager to leave. Something about ‘subpar food selection’. They are currently nestled around Harry’s collar, their tail sticking out of the end of his sleeve slightly.

“What’ve you got there Harry?” Asks Alleyway guy, who Harry recently learnt is called Remus.

And suddenly, Harry doesn’t feel so talkative anymore.   
“Snake.”

Remus’ eyes widen fractionally. “Why? How?” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Harry, did you steal that snake?”

“No. He wanted to come with me.”

Remus’ face gets all twisted up, and Harry’s worried that he’s going to start the whole ‘stealing is morally wrong’ lecture. He really hopes that Sirius comes back soon, although he doubts that any of them will be too impressed that he’s befriended and stolen an entire snake.   
“Harry. You can’t just do whatever you want to do whenever you want to do it.”

“Seems to have worked out pretty well for me so far.”

“Look, even if you hadn’t stolen it”, his glare is very pointed, “You can only bring a cat, a toad, or an owl to Hogwarts. Those are the approved pets.”

“Not that I’d know, being that I am a deprived and orphaned destitute, but it seems to me that a snake is a lot less work than a cat. He can just live in this weird old suitcase you put my stuff in when you kidnapped me.”

“A trunk.”  
It seems like a bit of a strange part of that statement to choose to focus on, but Harry decides to just roll with it.

“No one has ever called it that. I’m pretty sure you’ve just made that up.” Another glare from Remus suggests that perhaps he didn’t make it up, but it’s not as if Harry’s going to admit that he was wrong. “Anyway, he can live in this suitcase and eat vermin or something.”

He repeats the last part, for Shay's benefit.

_“I do not want to do that.”_

“Tough shit mate, maybe try getting on the approved pets list next time.”

_“It is not my fault that they don’t know what the best animal companion is.”_

“Hell yeah, love the confidence!”

Remus takes another deep breath, so heavy that Harry can almost feel it from where he’s standing, a few metres away. He’s really not sure why the guy is acting so high and mighty when he’s the one who kidnapped a teenager very, very recently.

“Harry.” The voice is measured again, but Harry doesn’t think that it’s for his benefit this time. “Did you just talk to that snake?”

“Yes?”

Remus is very, very pale, but he just sighs.   
“Okay.”

It really doesn’t seem okay, but Harry is not even going to bother about considering why.   
He’s got some (actually necessary) supplies to buy, before they change their mind about letting him. 


	17. Outsmarted by a hat

Harry becomes a strange presence around the castle.   
The anger he had is switched out for apathy. There’s no more shouting or swearing, or things spontaneously combusting. It’s like he doesn’t even care anymore. Like he’s lost the energy, the motivation, to feel anything at all.

He takes no interest at all in the lessons they try to give him, barely even trying to perform any sort of magic at all. They haven’t divided his studies up into subjects per say, because there is in no way enough time to teach him everything. They have to teach him charms, basic potions, defensive magic, magical lore, Occlumency, and transfiguration. Everything else is secondary.

They don’t have much time at all, because the magical war is looming, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back, and back in a dangerous, unpredictable fashion, and Harry is their secret weapon. A secret weapon who refuses to even attempt to cast a simple charm.

“See if you can turn this rat into a goblet.”  
“I think that’s animal cruelty Miss.”

“Try to summon that quill from across the room.”  
“Can’t you just go and get it?”

“Can you tell me what a Portkey is, Mr Evans?”  
He doesn’t even respond that time, instead tapping out a complex rhythm on the desk with his wand. A wand which McGonagall has yet to see perform a single spell.

“Try to close your mind, and prevent me from entering.”  
“What are you doing trying to enter a teenage boy?”  
That last one was the only time he actually did as he was told. Severus said that the only thing he could feel inside Harry’s head was a resounding, “Fuck off.”

Whenever they try to talk about the war, and about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s dangerous rhetoric, Harry rolls his eyes.

“Why is no one doing anything about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like sanctions or some shit, I don’t know, I didn’t listen in GCSE history.”

“Sanctions?”

“Yeah, or I dunno, maybe a gun to the back of his head.”

“What?”

“He may be crazy and racist and spooky, but nobody’s surviving a bullet to the brain.”

“Why don’t we try some charms, Mr Evans?”

When he isn’t in lessons, actively refusing to listen or learn anything, he pitches up in his room, or sulks around in the hallways, smoking something which is definitely more than just tobacco, in his muggle clothes. At mealtimes, he wanders into the great hall, grabs himself a plate, and disappears. Sometimes she forgets that he’s even there at all.

The strangest thing about his presence however, isn’t the apathy, or the drug use, or the choice of clothes. It’s the snake.

When Albus first saw him with the snake, his face went very pale, and he seemed to forget how to breathe for a moment.   
McGonagall supposes that she somewhat understood that reaction.   
Because Harry acts, or is, calloused and cruel. Harry doesn’t care to learn from them, he thinks of himself as above it all. Harry walks around with a snake draped around his neck.   
Although his skin is darker, his features different, he’s strikingly similar, in many ways, to Tom Riddle.

And that could mean that the war is already lost.   
If James and Lily could see their son now. 

* * *

  
It’s not that Harry doesn’t care.   
He does.

Because as much as he hates to admit it, learning is fun. He likes finding things out, and this ‘magic’ stuff is much more interesting than the structure of a cell.   
But the problem is that he can’t.

His brain doesn’t hold onto the information quite right, and the letters seem to dance on the page and they won’t quite sit still. And even though it’s easier on the off-white scrolls they use here, it still takes him far too long to make sense of them. And it’s even worse when they speak to him, and ask him questions and expect him to retain things, because his brain doesn’t move that quickly. He loses his focus too fast, his mind just can’t seem to sit still, even when he’s learning how to control his ‘magic’. Because as much as he hates the ‘magic’, and everything it stands for, he hates feeling stupid even more.

It was okay at school, when he’d sit in class high out of his mind, or he’d carve his initials into the lab benches, or doodle on his arms in whiteboard markers, because then he wasn’t making the effort. It was okay when he showed up to his exams hungover, having not even opened up a revision guide, because that was his fault, his choice. He’s so scared of trying and failing, of doing his best and it still not being enough. He’s so scared that this whole insane situation is somehow getting worse.

They still won’t speak to him properly. Still won’t answer the questions he needs.   
He doesn’t even know what he needs.

He’s sixteen years old, and he’s alone.   
His only friend is a fucking snake, which sits too heavy on his shoulders, and makes his neck ache.   
He’s sixteen years old, and it’s taken him nearly an hour to read one page of this textbook.   
He’s sixteen years old, and he thinks he might be stupid, like properly stupid.

He can’t get his wand to work. It doesn’t do anything, even when he really focuses.   
He thinks that might make them angry.   
It makes him angry, the feeling of uselessness.   
And besides, they have no right to be angry at him. Not when he’s been dumped in the middle of all of it.   
He doesn’t ask about his past, he doesn’t ask about his future. Doesn’t ask about the long-term plan, because he’s fucked up too many long-term plans to count.   
Every night he lies on his bed, with the curtains (the fucking curtains) open, and watches as he spins the furniture around the room, more and more each evening, with Shay hissing in his ear.

He lists the things he’s learnt.   
His full legal name is Harry James Potter. His father, James Potter was Indian. His mother, Lily Evans was white. They were both murdered. He was almost murdered. He is alive. He is a wizard. The man who tried to murder him is back. There is a war coming.

He is not ready to fight. 

* * *

  
“Potter, Harry.”  
The hall fills with whispers, necks crane to get a better look at him.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, because McGonagall knows better by now that that’s not his name. Still, he’s on the right side of high to let it slide, the sort of fuzzy cotton wool feeling is nestled in his chest, making him feel less static and flighty than usual.   
The hundreds of eyes on him are starting to make him feel like a bit of a freakshow.

The sideshow act. Roll up roll up, come and see this 16 year old boy, about to get ‘sorted’ along with a bunch of kids and then made to go and sit on a strange colour coded table as if he’s back in year 5 again. The whole thing seems really fucking stupid. He probably should’ve listened better in his ‘lessons’, but there’s no time for that now. There’s plenty of things he’s done that are more worthy of his regret.

He sits down on the stool as directed, tries not to squirm as a ragged old hat which looks like it belongs to some Victorian street child, is placed on his head. 

“Harry Potter” says the hat. Great. Not only can this hat scream out nonsense made up words to the whole hall, it’s also somehow speaking directly to him, like inside his brain. It reminds him of when Goth Guy tried to go burrowing around in his thoughts (not that kicking him out was any great feat.)

“Not my name. Learn to read minds better.”

“It’s the name you were born with.”

“And yet it is not the name I have lived with.”

The hat laughs. The sound is jarring, echoing around inside his skull.

“Okay then, Harry Evans. Where to put you?”

“Well, my favourite colour is blue, if that helps at all.”  
It’s not even true. His favourite colour is probably brown or something, but lying about himself (and to himself), even about the most trivial things is almost second nature by now.

“That’s not how this works. I decide where to put you based on your attributes.”

“Right… and is that what you do to the little kids as well? Because they’re like barely people yet. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any thoughts until I was at least thirteen.”

“I find that rather hard to believe.”

Harry decides that now is not the best moment to bring up the years that are missing from his memory, and the taped up box hidden under his mattress.

“I’m just wondering why you chose to put children in categories before they’ve become themselves.”

“That is the way this works. Those attributes exist inside you all along.”

“Sure, whatever you say. I am not about to start arguing with a hat.”  
He’s already argues with a snake on a daily basis, and he’s got to draw the line somewhere.

“Well Mr Evans, I can see that you’re clever, with a quick mind.”

Harry resists the urge to laugh at that. “I have quite a few teachers who would disagree.”

“There is more than one way to be clever Mr Evans. Academia is not the only path to greatness. It’s more about the curiosity inside of you.”

“The curiosity inside me…”  
Harry would do that thing with his eyebrows where he sort of waggles them suggestively, but he can’t, because of the whole, ‘they are inside his head’ thing.

“You also value friendship, and loyalty, although you have been shown little of either in your life.”  
And okay. That’s a bit close to the bone. It’s one thing to know it, and it’s another to have it repeated back by a disembodied voice.

“You can quit psychoanalysing me at any point. Like feel free to stop.”

“You have all the same ingredients your parents had when they sat on this stool.”

“I don’t care what my parents were. I lived 16 years without even knowing their names.”  
And he still doesn’t care. He really, truly doesn’t.

“Many end up in the same house as their parents.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“I thought you didn’t care what they were? Surely their house shouldn’t effect you at all.”

“It doesn’t.” Harry refuses to admit that he was just outsmarted by a hat.

“Fine. Not Gryffindor.”

“Why does everyone keep making up words? That’s just not a word.”

“Just because you haven’t heard it doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”  
The hat is awfully self-righteous for a piece of sentient clothing.

“Hurry up and decide already mate, I’m getting hungry.”

“They could do you well, but there’s no ambition.” The hat sounds disappointed. “You don’t strive for more.”

And that pisses Harry off, because he’s never been in a situation where being more, where being something, is any more than a pipe dream. Jay would call him a nihilist, Aman would call him a pessimist, but he’s just a realist. Ambition is for rich people, ones with families and opportunities. People like Harry shouldn’t even bother.

“Maybe I’m just happy the way I am.”

“You can’t lie to me Harry. I can see inside your head.”

He almost rips the hat off there and then, he can feel his fingers tingling slightly, curling into his sleeves. He cannot lose his cool, not here and now, in front of all these people.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”  
He repeats it like a mantra, partly to shut the hat up, and partly to calm himself, to ground himself.

The hat continues, carefully. “You have cunning, self preservation, assertiveness….”

“Okay?”

“But is it the right place?”

“Isn’t this your job? Like your entire purpose is to know if it’s the right place”

“I thought you didn’t believe in putting people into these categories”

“Well I’m not exactly going to go and sit on my own table in protest. People are looking at me weirdly enough as it is.”

Not that Harry gives a single flying fuck what a bunch of teenagers who actively chose to wear robes and pointy hats think of him. And okay, part of the reason they’re staring at him so strangely may be the fact that he refused to wear the uniform, and is instead in his own ‘Muggle’ (aka normal) clothes.

The hat doesn’t speak again. Harry sits with baited breath for a long moment, until finally the silence is broken.   
“SLYTHERIN”.

The Hall falls silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a teeny tiny bit of writers block right now but I am trying to power through and get this bad boy finished.....
> 
> Anyways... let me know what you think (the middle section of this one got a bit introspective there don't mind me)


	18. Probably something diagnosable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes an entrance!

The hat is pulled from his head. He stands up. McGonagall gives him this weird look, all confused and shocked. He sort of wasn’t aware that anything he did could shock them anymore, especially when in this case all he did is sit and get psychoanalysed by a hat. He finds himself focusing on the crease between her eyebrows, which is suddenly very prominent.

“Which table is that?”

And then she looks a little annoyed, which means that she probably explained the whole system to him at some point, and he just wasn’t listening. Well there’s nothing he can do about that now.

She motions him towards a table decorated with green and silver banners, a serpent flying high. Shay would be delighted. Actually no, Shay would be indifferent. He’s probably out hunting right now. Harry finds himself missing that stupid fucking snake a weird amount, especially as he stares down the table and hundreds of (mostly white) faces stare back at him. Great. Just fucking perfect. Not only has a hat spoken to him, the whole ‘Houses’ thing seems to be a very big deal, and he doesn’t even have a friendly voice in his ear (a voice coming from a fucking snake. His only friend is a snake). It’s like all those times that he was the new kid at school, desperately trying (and failing) to fit in. Except from now it’s somehow worse, because even though he’s decided not to make any friends, he actually has to sit at this table with these people, and they’re probably going to do and say weird shit, and he has to control himself.. He has to go and sit at the table from the snake house with the made up name, and learn how to do fucking magic tricks. God, he really misses Aman.

He considers the merits of just walking out of the Hall right now, of making a grand exit while he still can. He feels like a rat on a sinking ship, who for some reason has chosen not to walk the plank. He could really use a smoke right about now.

The chattering started up again, pretty quickly after the hat decided his fate, but people are still giving him strange sidesways looks. He’s a little bitter that he didn’t even get a clap, when most of the eleven year olds got cheers, but (as he keeps having to remind himself), it doesn’t matter. None of this matters. He’s still not fully convinced that it’s really happening.

“Potter.” A voice saying his not-name cuts above the others, “You can sit here.”  
A white girl with brown hair motions over to him, smiling like she’s only just learned how to do it, too many teeth showing, with her lips curled strangely.

“It’s actually Evans.”

“Oh. Okay.” The girl looks confused, but quickly collects herself. “Well I’m Pansy, Pansy Parkinson.”

She’s actually quite pretty, when she’s not attempting to show off her molars in a strange approximation of a friendly greeting.   
There’s a boy sitting next to her, with dark skin and cropped hair. He is very pretty. So pretty in fact, that Harry choses to stare down at the table, before he does something stupid and impulsive (with his lips, or his fists). He’s never been very good at controlling himself around pretty people, and Aman would be less than impressed with him (he’d also be less than impressed with himself, but that takes the backseat for some reason).

Even though he doesn’t afford her a response, the girl carries on speaking. “When we heard you’d been alive and living in the _muggle_ world all this time we could hardly believe it.”

“Well here I am.” He does half hearted jazz hands, and Pansy stares at him like she can’t quite believe he’s real. He levels her with a scrutinising look. “Anyway, why did you say ‘muggle’ like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said it like it’s an insult or a slur or something. Bit strange, mate.”

She presses her lips together, and until they form one thin line, and then says, “Sorry.” In this choked up voice, like there’s nothing she wants to say less.

“Just found it a bit odd.”

She nods stiffly, then composes herself, slipping that strange, slightly feral smile back into place. “That’s the longest I’ve ever seen the hat to decide. But he made the right choice of course.”

Harry can tell from a subtle glance to the side that the pretty boy has gone back to eating his food. Harry sort of wishes that Pansy would do the same, because he’s increasingly not in the mood to talk (or rather, be talked at).

“How do you know that?”

“What?” Pansy looks confused

“This whole house thing is bullshit anyways. How can a bunch of 11 year olds be so fundamentally different that you have to sit them on different tables?”

A boy across the table makes a strange, strangled sound, and Harry looks up at him.

He’s pretty as well (which is completely unfair), but in a smarmy, private school way (wait, is this a private school? Does Harry now go to private school?). He’s got this bright bleached hair (Jay would say that it was ‘very nicely toned, no brassy notes at all’), which falls in almost curtains (and makes Harry wonder if the greasy hair look is intentional, or if these people don’t know how to take care of themselves). Despite his attractiveness, his eyes are sort of dull, and there’s this strange slump in his shoulders. Not that any of that fucking matters, because he is not here to make friends (or anything more than friends).

And just to prove it to himself, he stares the boy directly in his sad, sad eyes and says. “You know I’m right.” He doesn’t phrase it like a question (he phrases it more like a challenge).

“I don’t spend too much time thinking about it.” Replies the boy, in a strange tone, a cross between a confident drawl, and a nervous stammering.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

The boy looks at him, and he looks at the boy. “I guess you’ve got me all figured out.”

Harry pauses, letting the tension hang in the air. “I guess I have.”

Pansy stares between them for a long moment. The frown on her face seems to come much more naturally than that weird smile did. “Well anyway, I’d like to formally welcome you to Slytherin.”

“And boy am I happy to be here.” He replies, darkly.

“You don’t sound happy” says the boy (and wow, he’s proper observant he is).

“Boy am I happy to be here” repeats Harry loudly, his tone so manically cheerful that several students on the other tables turn their heads. “Was that better?” he asks the boy sweetly.

The aghast look on the boy’s face suggests that it was not in fact, better. “What is wrong with you?”

“Not sure. Probably something diagnosable.”

“So Evans”, says Pansy, in a desperate attempt to change the subject, “Why aren’t you wearing the uniform?”

“Didn’t want to look like a prick” He makes eye contact with the boy as he says it, making it as pointed as possible.

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Oh I dunno”, he leans right in, as if he’s about to tell a secret, both elbows on the table, “What do you think. I look pretty fit, wouldn’t you say?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Why do _you_ think I’m asking _you_?”

And that’s the trick of it. Because this boy is either straight (and so will become uncomfortable at Harry’s weird almost-flirting), or he’s closeted (and so is desperate not to be perceived as gay, and will be uncomfortable), or he’s actually gay (and so Harry can shag him (but then again, Aman, so maybe not)). No matter what, Harry comes out on top (hah).

The tips of the boy’s ears have gone pink. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

Harry’s money is on closeted (or just not interested in him, which seems frankly impossible). No straight boy does their hair like that.

“Sure, darling, whatever you say.”  
The pink colour spreads to the boys cheeks.   
“Come on baby”, Harry croons, “Tell me I’m pretty.”

The boy lets out another strange sound, and then gets up from the table, clearly intent on moving as far away from Harry as possible. The girl with the strange smile, Pansy, gives him a dirty look, but makes no move to follow. And okay, he should probably feel like a bit of prick for whatever that was, but it wasn’t real. None of it was real, none of it will ever be real.

Harry digs into his slice of pumpkin pie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey gang, I know Draco's arrival has been awaited, so here he is kinda! He's getting a lovely POV chapter next as well I reckon (and fair warning he is troubled)


	19. Round and round

Unlike most wizarding children, Draco did not grow up hearing stories about The Boy Who Lived. His father always put a complicated amount of distance between himself and the past, barely ever mentioning the war, as if abject denial would absolve him of his sins (not that he saw anything he did as sinful). His parents also weren’t really the bedtime story sort. In fact, when it comes down to it, he was probably raised more by house elves than by his own parents. They loved him, they love him, but sometimes he wonders if it’s less him, and more the Pureblood heir that they love.

His childhood was easy, his childhood was complicated. His parents love him, his parents would hate him if they really took the time to know him. Draco’s life is full of things which don’t make sense, things which leave him reeling and make him sad-sad-sad, which just gives way to the numbness and the apathy. That seems to be the cycle of it, round and round.

Things like Harry Potter.

When he got his Hogwarts letter, his father sat him down, and told him that Harry Potter was going to school with him, that he would meet him, and befriend him. At the time, Draco wasn’t quite sure why he was being directed to interact with this boy who was somehow both unknown and legendary, but he nodded and smiled, because he was good, and he did as he was told, and he knew that it would make his father proud. Back then, that was all that mattered (back then, his father being proud of him felt attainable).

In the Great Hall, as they waited to be sorted, he snuck glances around at the other students, squaring them up. He scoffed and sniped and was so self-assured. The world owed him something, the world owed him everything. Among the faces of his peers, there were none that fit the bill of Harry Potter, they were all the wrong gender, or the wrong colour, or lacking the scar on their head. He found that a little confusing, and his puzzlement only grew when he was sitting at the Slytherin table, watching the last few names being called, and ‘Potter, Harry’ was not among them. At the time, he assumed that his father had been mistaken, and Harry was simply in the year below. It would be an easy mistake to make, he reasoned, especially for a man as busy and important as Lucius.

Over the summer he learned that it was not just a mistake. That was also around the time that he began to truly understand his father’s place in the story of The Boy Who Lived, and the whole thing became complicated for a different reason.

Despite himself, he still sat to rapt attention when the names were called in second year. But there was still no Harry, and the whispers and the rumours and the legend grew. The Boy-Who-Lived vanishing into thin air, with no real evidence of what happened, of whether he actually lived past infanthood. His father embraced the last part of the story vehemently, something in him convinced that if Harry Potter had not lived, then perhaps the Dark Lord had not really died. Once he showed Draco a little black book he owned, which was utterly unremarkable, but apparently a gift from the Dark Lord himself. The knowledge, the inkling, that there was more to the downfall of the Dark Lord than it first seemed, tantalised and terrified his father in equal measure. Lucius expected something to happen, they all expected something. But life went on the same as always, and it was as if Harry never even existed at all.

In fact, by the third year, Harry’s name had somewhat slipped into obscurity. Everyone knew it still, but it was rarely spoken of. More topical was the escape of Sirius Black (another complicated family matter). As far as Draco knows, they never even caught him. By fourth year, Draco had stopped craning his neck to scrutinise the new arrivals, and by fifth year, the name ‘Harry Potter’ hadn’t graced Draco’s mind in a long while.

But now the rumours are back, and this time with a vengeance. They say Harry Potter has been found, they say he’s been alive all along, hiding in the muggle world, they say he’ll be the one to end the war, the one to defeat the Dark Lord.

Draco’s arm hurts. Phantom pains. Sometimes he half convinces himself that it was all a bad dream, that his skin is unblemished and his life isn’t over before it even began. The pretending makes the whole thing much less complicated.

His father’s words from 5 years prior ring in his ears, ‘befriend Harry Potter.’  
He wonders how differently his life would’ve turned out if Harry Potter had been there, if Harry Potter had stepped up to that stool, and put the hat on his head, the same as the rest of them. Draco wonders if he’d still be like this, there at the table, but somehow not all the way there, with a brand on his arm, marking him as something evil.

After the first years are sorted, something he doesn’t even pretend to listen to, or participate in anymore, preferring to slump slightly against the wall, wishing he was anywhere else (wishing he was anyone else), McGonagall calls out those fated, anticipated words.

“Potter, Harry.”

The room explodes with whispers, the air suddenly ignited with possibility. And even Draco is slightly engaged, because Merlin, Harry Potter is here, the one from the stories. When Draco eventually heard the tales, he never imagined he would serve the villain of them. Of course he didn’t. He knew what his father was, in the abstract, but he never thought, he never presumed, that that would be him. Even now, he doesn’t know what life has in store for him. He doesn’t even know if he’ll live to see tomorrow. He doesn’t even know if he wants to.

Then suddenly, stomping down the centre of the hall, is the Harry Potter. He’s wearing muggle clothes, a patched denim jacket, and jeans which are more rips than fabric, with heavy boots, his hair long and messy. He’s (unfortunately) good looking, and he carries himself as if he knows it. But there’s also this incredible anger in his eyes, this tightness in his jaw, this tension in his shoulders, visible as he blusters past. Draco is familiar with that feeling, or he was, before this feeling of apathy, this feeling of emptiness. Harry visibly rolls his eyes before he puts the hat on, sitting strangely on the stool, as if he doesn’t realise that everyone’s eyes are on him.

And then it’s ‘SLYTHERIN’, and the hall is frozen in shock.

It takes a moment to process, and Draco almost laughs, because Slytherin is undoubtedly not how it was supposed to go. He knows what they all think. Slytherin is the house where evil is made, the darkness where evil breeds evil (sometimes he wonders if the darkness was in him all along, or if his House just made it rear it's ugly head). Slytherin is not the house for the chosen one. It is not the house where the war ends, it is the house where the war began.   
And he wishes it wasn’t true. He wishes it was different, he wishes he was different. He wishes he was stronger, wishes he had known better (sometimes he wishes that he didn’t know better, wishes he could just be a follower, and not have that cloying feeling of wrongness).

Maybe his life would be different if he was wearing blue or red or yellow.   
And now Harry Potter, The Harry Potter is (metaphorically) wearing green.

Professor McGonagall barely even suppresses her shock, but Harry seems unphased. And then he’s standing, and walking closer and closer and closer, and Draco isn’t staring, even as the rest of the hall cranes their necks to watch. He has a strange look on his face, his lips twisted into a strange expression between a smile and a frown, which is almost a grimace. His eyes flicker from the table, to the ceiling, to the back of his skull (as he rolls them, yet again), before finally settling on the doors.

And of course Pansy invites him to sit down. Of course she does.   
Up close he’s even better looking, and his voice is low and rough, and Draco contents himself with taking tiny glances at this boy who shouldn’t exist, who no one really thought would ever be sitting here today. Contents himself with the fact that that is the only reason he is looking at Harry. It distracts him from the ugliness blooming below his sleeve, however momentarily.

But then Harry is speaking to him.   
And that’s where it all goes wrong. 

As he picks at his food, now sandwiched between Crabbe and a pretty blonde girl who he doesn’t quite recognise, but keeps trying to speak to him, he can’t help but sneak glances back at Harry. Harry who seems remarkably unbothered by the whole thing, eating his food and pointedly not looking around. Draco wishes he could be like that. Draco wishes he could’ve held his own, not gotten all flustered and blown the whole thing out of proportion. But that’s just not who he is.

It’s not that he thought that becoming a Death Eater would make him stop liking boys. If that was the case, he would’ve become one as soon as he knew there was something different about him (something wrong about him). It’s just all so complicated, and it felt like fixing the problem on one front. The dark mark is seared on his arm, his father is proud. He is gay, and if his father knew, he would be disowned. It’s all so jumbled and twisted up, and the pain and the shame and the fear all comes to light when faced down by one boy.

Harry.   
Harry who’s so inequitably linked to the mark on his arm. Harry who openly mocked him, who openly poked fun at his biggest shame.   
Harry, who’s good looking and witty and snarky and could’ve just been teasing him.   
Harry who he needs to forget all about, before all of these complicated things get even more muddled together.

Draco sinks into his seat, wishing, not for the first time, that he could simply cease to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise there's basically no dialogue to break up this chapter, but oh well! What's a gal to do  
> (I know it's kind of complicated and jumbled, but I was trying to reflect how Draco is very confused and conflicted!)  
> I said this in the comments but basically without Harry there, there was no Ministry of Magic showdown (Voldermort just came back quietly), so Sirius didn't die, and Lucius wasn't sent to Azkaban, so Draco hasn't been enlisted to kill Dumbledore, but he has still joined the Deatheaters!  
> I'm going to explore how Harry's absence would change the storyline in later chapters!  
> Anyways! Comment and let me know what you think!!


	20. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Harry’s migraine starts as he’s eating his fourth slice of pumpkin pie.   
It’s not Baklava, but it’s pretty good, all things considered.

And of course, of course, Dumbledoo chooses the exact moment that Harry’s head starts throbbing to start delivering some nonsensical speech about unity and bravery.

It’s worse than the anti-bullying assembly they had in Year 8, with all of those weird infographics on the projector, when the Head of Year droned on and on about respect and empathy, loving thy neighbour and all of that shit. Right after that, this group of boys pushed Harry over in the corridor and called him a fag. It was a learning experience for all of them. They learned respect, and Harry learned what sound wrist bones make when they pop out of their sockets. It was a real shame that none of those boys could hold a pen to do their end of year exams, and very strange that the three of them simultaneously dislocated both wrists, but hey, thirteen year old boys are nothing if not clumsy, and it’s not like Harry even touched them, so it couldn’t have been his fault.

The combination of Dumbledoo’s irritating voice and the memory somehow makes Harry’s head hurt even worse. He stares at the pie on his plate, appetite suddenly diminished.

He supposes that if he’s not here to eat, then there’s really no reason to be here at all. Besides, he’s coming down from his vague high, no longer feeling fuzzy and disconnected, and his eyes are starting to get a bit gummy with tiredness.   
Some fresh air will wake him up, make his head stop pounding.

Before he has time to properly consider it (not that Harry Evans is one to think things through), he’s on his feet, stepping out over the bench, nonchalant as anything. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, he can feel them staring, but he can’t bring it in himself to care (he reckons there’s only so many things that one person can let bother them, and he’s more than reached capacity (it’s like that water barrel metaphor that Alisha made him do, made him write all his stresses out on (apparently ‘the stress of being model-good-looking’ wasn’t a valid answer)).

As he reaches the doors at the back of the hall, Dumbledoo stops speaking, suspended in the middle of a sentence. The Hall is silent. Fucking finally.

And then Dumbledoo says, “Harry…”, in this strange tone, almost gentle, almost warning, but every bit as fucking condescending as every other thing he says.  
Harry doesn’t respond, just pushes the doors open and steps out into the cool hallway, running his fingers along one of the stone walls. He likes how it feels, all rough and grooved.

He doesn’t push the doors closed behind him but they slam all the same.

***

Nobody comes looking for him, thank fuck, so he just lays on the grass (which is nicer than any grass he ever saw in London, what with all of the pollution), and stares up at the stars (he might as well have been seeing them for the first time, again, with all of the pollution).

He almost wishes on the stars, almost screws his eyes up as tight as possible and repeats it like a mantra. He used to do it all the time as a kid, wishing on birthday candles, and eyelashes, and falling leaves, and pennies he found on the pavement, pressed so hard into his little palms that they left indents. He had a lot of wishes back then. He’d pick up a coin and wish they were having pizza for dinner. He’d brush an eyelash off his cheek and wish that someone out there loved him. He’d catch a feather in the wind, and wish that he’d win the game of Bulldog on the playground. He’d blow out the candles on the top of his shop bought cake and wish that he could belong somewhere.

He doesn’t know what to wish for now.   
He wishes he was different. He wishes everything was different. He wishes they’d learn to respect him (and he ignores the little voice in his head saying that he could just teach them to respect him). He wishes he was normal, not just with the magic, but with everything. He wishes he cared more, he wishes he was less angry (he wishes he had less reason to be angry), he wishes he could be more likable, less of an insufferable prick, he wishes that his only friend wasn’t a snake, and that the longest conversation he’s had in weeks wasn’t with a hat.   
The stars glitter above him innocently, all scattered and beautiful (they really are beautiful) against the night sky.

In the end he settles for a simple wish.   
He wishes that tomorrow will be better. 

***

Harry wakes, still sprawled out on the grass, face upturned towards the sky.   
His muscles feel coiled and curled and stiff, his neck cricked at a strange angle, his glasses askew, and it’s entirely too much like a stupid ‘nature retreat’ he was forced to go on, a million group homes ago.  
His whole body feels uncomfortably damp, the morning dew settled in on him as if he was just part of the ground. There’s something poetic about that, something he can’t quite wrap his head around.

He shakes it off, running a hand through his hair, mussing up his curls slightly. Waking up like this (unpleasant though it is), is a welcome change from the monotony that the days have become. It felt like sleepwalking, it feels like sleepwalking. He feels like he isn’t quite properly awake, like his eyes are open but he isn’t quite seeing, and he can’t work out how to make himself right again (not that Harry Evans has ever been quite right (no he’s wrong wrong wrong, and the only difference now is that everybody knows it).

He gets through three and a half cigarettes before they find him.  
He smokes them in such quick succession that he starts to feel all woozy, but he can’t seem to help himself (self-control is not something he’s known for).

He’s a little confused about why they didn’t bother to look (or look very hard) the previous night. Perhaps he’s downgraded in importance in their eyes. He doesn’t mind. Of course he doesn’t mind (why the fuck would he?). He’d do anything to get them off his back for just five minutes, he’d do anything for a breath of fresh air. And then he got it (although the fresh air part is questionable with the stale feeling settling in his lungs). He got it, and it felt lonelier than ever before.

“Mr Evans.”  
Fucking fantastic. The one person in the castle who seems to loathe Harry more than he loathes himself (and holy shit, that’s one of the more depressing things he’s thought, especially for this early in the morning. His wish really didn’t work).

“Alright?” He feigns this innocent tone, like he has no idea what’s going on, like he’s just bumped into Goth Guy down at the corner store or something. (And yes, he knows by now that he’s called Snape, but without stupid nicknames, how’s he supposed to entertain himself?),

“What are you doing out here?” Goth Guy already sounds like his patience is wearing thin. Unlucky for him, Harry could keep this up all day.

“Sitting on the grass?” Harry replies incredulously, raising an eyebrow as if to say, ‘What kind of a stupid question is that?’

“Why are you sitting on the grass?” Goth guy is doing his best to stay calm, but Harry can see the rapidly developing tension in his jaw. He wonders how the hell this guy even manages to be a teacher, when he’s this easy to wind up.

“Because it’s more comfortable than standing.”

“Why are you even out here at all?” His annoyance is seeping into his voice now, he’s barely making any attempt to conceal it.

“Just felt like it.”

Harry taps the ash off the end of his cigarette, and takes another long drag, trying to ignore the way it makes his stomach turn slightly. He will not be throwing up in front of Goth Guy if he can help it.

“All students must be in their rooms at night time. You’ve been told this many times.” Harry stares at him with this innocent look on his face, like that’s the first he’s ever heard of that. “And since you’re in Slytherin, I’m in charge of making sure that you follow the rules.”

“Lucky you!”

“Indeed. Lucky me.” Goth Guy casts his eyes back up towards the castle. “You’re going to be late for your classes if you stay here.

“Do I look like I give a shit.” He doesn’t pose it as a question, because it isn’t one. He doesn’t give a shit, and that’s that.

“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

“A pathological craving for attention I reckon, or maybe I was dropped on a head as a baby.”

Goth guy stares at him for a long moment, his steely black eyes boring directly into Harry’s. It feels just like that ‘session’ where he tried to clamber inside Harry’s brain and rub his greasy little fingers over everything. Harry put a stop to that pretty quickly of course, all that compartmentalising finally came in handy.

“Look, as romantic as this is, I’d recommend not staring longingly into students eyes, people might get the wrong idea.”

Goth guy doesn’t even respond to that, just stares at him, cold and (attempting to be) emotionless.

Harry hauls himself to his feet, slapping the guy lightly on the shoulder, like you’d do to a friend in the pub when you were getting up to go and get the next round (although Harry has little experience with either friends or pubs (much cheaper to just get pissed in a field)). “Good chat, big man.”

He’s about to saunter away, walk back to the castle, and piss about for a bit, maybe see how long he can hold his head underwater in the baths again. He’s actually up to 174 seconds now (and if that isn’t a testament to the extent to which his life has spiralled out of control, he’s getting all excited about how long he can not-drown for (174 seconds isn’t bad for a guy who doesn’t even know how to swim)). He’s almost fully made up his mind that that’s what he’s going to do, when he gets this sudden urge, this sudden twisted little desire to be a prick (well, more of a prick). He’s in a bad mood. His neck hurts, and his clothes are damp, and he’s uncomfortable, and he feels weird and untethered, and not like himself, but also too painfully acquainted with who he really is, and he wants someone else to feel as rotten as he does.

“How old are you anyway? Fourty? Fifty?”

“I’m thirty-six.” Goth Guy replies dryly.

“Wow! You’ve really aged poorly. Try not frowning so much, you’ll get horrible wrinkles” Harry pauses, “More horrible wrinkles.”

If looks could kill, Harry would be dead ten times over.

Finally Goth guy speaks, with a tone like ice, “Go back to your rooms Mr Evans, your lesson timetable is there.”

It’s not a request. Harry figures he can toe the line for now (not that he’s been doing that so far).  
“Sir, yes sir!” He salutes sharply, like he’s in the army or something. But then again, for all this talk about a ‘War’ coming, he might as well be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what yah think!
> 
> Harry is also straight up not having a good time sadly 
> 
> (life update: my newly pierced industrial is infected im very upset)


	21. Keeping up appearances

Draco sees Harry before Harry sees him.

He was in a marginally better mood, before he walked into the common area of the two rooms, and saw Harry Evans sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling.   
He was in a marginally better mood, because even though things were, things are, complicated, he was going to pretend, act like the person he used to be, at least for a day or two. And now Harry is laying on the floor, in a way that makes it very clear that he’s the occupant of the other bedroom.

Draco wonders why Professor Snape would do this to him.

  
“Oh. It’s you.” He says, trying to make his tone as full of contempt as possible. Harry Evans seems like he would be an easy person to hate. (Draco is more used to telling himself lies than the truth at this point).

Harry doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge him in any way. Draco hates feeling ignored, hates feeling invisible.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” replies Harry sarcastically.

“I was just asking, there’s no need to be rude.”

“There’s every need to be rude.”

“Right. Well I’m late for class.”

“And?”

“That means you’re probably late for class as well.”

“And?”

To be fair, Harry has a point. The thought of school, of OWLs, and NEWTs and tests and homework, seems almost inconsequential at this point. But it’s all about keeping up appearances (and keeping his mind busy so he doesn’t spiral all the way to insanity). Sometimes he wishes it was all a bit simpler. Wishes he was happy being trapped, wishes he was happy being himself.

“Well I’m going.”

“So cut the dramatics and piss off already.”

He turns to leave, and Harry grumbles (loudly enough to be clearly heard), “Fucking tory twat”.

Draco isn’t quite sure what a ‘Tory’ is, but it doesn’t seem exactly complimentary. He closes the door a little harder than necessary on the way out. 

* * *

  
  
_“Were you being rude to him?”_ Shay slithers right over him, resting across his torso, and facing him, doing his very best to force Harry to make eye contact. Harry scrunches his eyes closed in protest. He is not being beaten by a snake.

“When am I not being rude?” All the bravado he means to inject into it just falls flat, which is a shame, because it makes him seem a lot more pathetic than he actually is.

 _“Rudeness isn’t a personality trait, it just makes people dislike you.”_ Replies Shay sagely, as if he’s some sort of therapist life guru, rather than being a fucking snake.

“Strong words coming from an overglorified draft excluder”

_“My point exactly.”_

“I’m not going to get psychoanalysed by a snake as well”

Shay doesn’t ask what the ‘as well’ refers to, although Harry thinks that he probably wants to. He’s gotten pretty good at recognising the boundaries with Harry, the lines not to cross. He’s gotten pretty good at picking his battles as well, because he drops the ‘being rude’ thing altogether.

 _“Where were you last night?”_ Shay sounds so much like a disapproving care worker, most recently just like Mr Holtwood did, that Harry almost loses it.

“Aw, did you stay up waiting?” he coos mockingly.

_“I was worried about you.”_

“Alright then ya fucking sap.”   
Harry tries his best not to show any emotion at that, tries not to show how much of an effect it has on him, that at least someone cares (even if it is a snake).

Shay flicks his tongue at Harry, in his best approximation of a ‘rude gesture’.   
_“Do you not have somewhere to go today?”_

“Getting rid of me already? I’m wounded!”

Shay sighs wearily, as if he’s parenting a small child, _“It would be a different story if you got me something to eat.”_

“You make it sound like I’m starving you! Aren’t you the hunter here?”

“And you’re the one who can magically summon food.”

Shay does have a point, so Harry begrudgingly sits up, ignoring Shay’s protests as he has to wrap himself around Harry’s shoulders to avoid slipping down, and focuses as hard as he can. Shay’s diet is disgusting (even for someone as not squeamish as Harry), but thankfully he doesn’t have to eat very often. Harry thinks he’d be a bit sad if he only got to have what amounts to one meal a week, but Shay seems to be alright with it (probably on account of the fact that Shay is in fact a snake).

A small pile of (recently) dead mice appears in front of him.   
It reminds him of a group home where they set up traps to deal with an infestation. Watching a mouse die didn’t have a great effect on six year old Harry’s psyche.

“You could’ve got that for yourself.”

 _“I was worried sick about you, so I simply couldn’t hunt.”_ Deadpans Shay.

Harry decides that he very much does not want to see Shay devour the stack of dead rodents. He shrugs Shay off, and gets to his feet, wondering if the whole ‘mealtime’ thing was just a ploy to make him more proactive. He wouldn’t put it past Shay, the slippery (literally) bastard. 

He finds his timetable, but unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), he doesn’t recognise the room numbers, and staring at the paper intensely until the dancing words all blur into one doesn’t fix the problem. Shay makes a particularly grim crunching sound, which could only be bones getting crushed, and Harry decides that even aimlessly wandering the halls is better than this.

He pulls his jacket on, and laces up his boots, waving at the (slightly) preoccupied snake. “Ciao.”

The Italian doesn’t impress Shay, but it’s not his fault that the bastard is uncultured. 

* * *

  
Hermione Granger has much more important things to think about than Harry Potter. For example, her NEWTs, and the impending Wizarding War. Ron always says that she needs to get her priorities straight, but truth be told, the NEWTs are just a lot easier to think about. Books, and learning and exams. Those are all safe territory, all things she’s good at. Fighting in a war, as the world she loves slowly gets more complicated and hateful of her just for being who she is, is less safe ground. She’s used to racism. Growing up as a little black girl in a predominantly white area, the realities of the world greeted her a lot sooner than her parents would’ve liked. She experienced racism then, she experiences prejudices now (she’s still not sure whether hatred of Muggleborns is technically racism or not. It’s akin to it in many ways, but race means something different to her, and it’s hard to reconcile the two). But none of that prepared her for the fact that You-Know-Who and his supporters want her dead. There are people in this world who want her dead for her identity, and they’re growing in numbers and power by the day.   
So it’s easier to think about NEWTs. Easier to think about the fact that she has Charms with Professor Flitwick next, and she really needs to focus on the wrist movements this year, because she might have to use these charms in more than a classroom setting.

She isn’t close to the war efforts exactly, but she isn’t all that removed. Ron’s family is involved in the fight, most of them are even in the Order, and she’s involved in Ron (no, not like that), so it makes sense that when the time comes, she’ll be there. And apparently, so will Harry Potter. None of the adults in the group are particularly thrilled about the idea of them potentially joining, but they don’t have many options left, and things are getting increasingly desperate.

She doesn’t think that she was the only one surprised when Harry Potter was sorted into Slytherin, in fact, it seemed like the whole Hall gasped in shock. She was more surprised when he got up and left during Dumbledore’s speech, a speech that perfectly encapsulated what Harry Potter symbolises, although from Ron’s description of him, ‘Bloody angry and he smoked in my kitchen’, she probably should’ve guessed that he wasn’t going to be the classic hero from the bedtime stories.

“What do you think Harry Potter being Slytherin means for the Order?” She asks Lavender as they walk to Charms together. Even though she’s a Pureblood, Lavender is about as involved in the Order as she is, being as she is (actually) involved in Ron.

Lavender rolls her eyes, which is probably fair, because they already discussed it last night in the Common room, at length, but Hermione can’t help herself.   
“I don’t know, ‘Mione.” Lavender sounds slightly nervous, like not knowing the answer scares her a little bit. She’s not alone in that fear. Then she gets that look on her face, that conspirator’s smile, the one that simultaneously makes Hermione delighted and absolutely terrified. “He was good looking though, wasn’t he?”

She’s deflecting, but Hermione plays along. “Maybe just a little bit.”

They walk into the classroom, which is almost empty, what with Professor Flitwick being perpetually late, and Lavender’s ridiculously fast paced walking.   
Almost empty that is.

Lounged at the back, one foot up on the desk, the other folded underneath him, is Harry Potter. The Harry Potter. Speak of the Devil. Hermione knows for a fact that Lavender is staring as well. They all saw him in the Great Hall yesterday of course, not only during his sorting, but also during his impromptu exit. But there’s a difference between seeing him then, all far off and abstract, and seeing him now, up close.

He’s got dark features, knitted together in a sort of scowl. His hair is slightly damp, hanging down to his chin in loose curls, tucked behind one ear, along with a cigarette. He’s wearing a ridiculous number of rings, and a thin gold chain around his neck. Hermione knows for a fact that the patched denim jacket, clashing jeans and heavy boots, one laced in purple and the other in yellow, are not in the school uniform.

She wants to say something to him, to speak to him, to do her best to understand him, even though she’s not exactly known for her caring and empathetic nature, but more students filter into the classroom, and the moment passes.

Professor Flitwick finally arrives, flustered as always, and begins the lessons with a flourish.

“Welcome back students, to your sixth year of study. Now, the Charms you’ll be learning here are far more complex than anything we’ve covered so far and I am confident that—”

A sickeningly loud banging sound coming from the back of the room interrupts his speech. They all turn around, and quickly realise that the source of the sound was Harry’s head dropping onto the desk. Professor Flitwick’s face falls, his eyebrows knitting together slightly.

“Mr Evans, are you alright?”

“Oh I’m peachy sir” Replies Harry, in a rough, bored voice, barely lifting his head off the desk. “Do carry on.”

He doesn’t so much as move for the rest of the lesson, and it shouldn’t make Hermione as angry as it does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> More Hermione pov coming I think (she is best friends with Lavender because I don't hate women and why wouldn't she be)


	22. Rancid personality

Was Harry being ‘insubordinate’? Probably.   
Did he deserve to get banished to the corridor? Again, probably.   
Is he going to wait around for Goth Guy to get more annoyed at him? Absolutely not.

He still hasn’t quite gotten used to the fact that the staircases move (which is stupid, but still not the most ridiculous thing about this death trap of a school), so he decides to just pace the corridors, to take in the wonderful sights and smells of this stupid fucking castle.

He finds a nice little alcove, which isn’t nearly as dusty as he thought it would be, so he clambers into it (the logic course of action for a sixteen year old), grateful for once that he isn’t all that tall.

He’s half in the mind to take a little nap. It almost feels like the cupboard he used to curl up in at one of his placements, his secret den (in his Narnia phase).

His head is resting against the wall, when he hears a voice, soft and breathy, with a slight accent. “Oh… hello there.”

A girl peers into the alcove, coming rather closer than Harry feels strictly comfortable with. She’s got long blonde hair, falling in tangles down her back, and this slightly dazed expression on her face, which instantly makes Harry wonder if she’s high. He only sort of wants to punch her, which is an improvement on the usual ‘really wants to’ that he feels when people invade his personal space.

He shifts backwards slightly, and nods stiffly in greeting, hoping this will prompt the girl to continue walking. She seems to realise her mistake, taking a half-step backwards. As she does so, Harry notices that she isn’t wearing any shoes. She’s fucking barefoot, wandering the halls of the castle. It reminds Harry a little bit of the people in this ‘facility’ that he spent some time in, a few years back.

He’s halfway between mildly impressed and wildly uncomfortable, when she speaks again.   
“It’s Harry, isn’t it? Harry Evans.”

He nods again, feeling slightly more relaxed, now that there’s a metre or so of distance between them (it’s not that he’s scared or anything, he just doesn’t like being cornered).   
The silence stretches on for a long moment, and then he asks, tentatively, “What’s your name?”

Her face breaks out into a sweet smile, one which crinkles the corners of her eyes up. Sometimes he wishes that his smile was like that, and less mocking and knowing and smug (Jay’s words, not his). “I’m Luna, Luna Lovegood, although most people call me Loony.”

Something about the way she says it, not happy about it, but accepting it as a fact of life makes Harry’s skin prickle slightly. It’s an unimaginative nickname if he’s ever heard one (although people trying to be mean to him tend to skip the nicknames and go straight for the slurs).   
“And are you?”

“Hm?”

“Are you ‘loony’”

“I suppose I might seem that way, people tend to be fearful when things are… different.”

Harry scoffs. “They can’t help being bland, so they take it out on other people.”

She hums in agreement, smiling at him again, a little softer. “Goodness me, there’s a lot of Wrackspurts around at the moment, aren’t there?”

“I swear, if I hear one more made up fucking word.”

Her face falls at that, getting sort of pinches up, and Harry reminds himself of what Shay said. Being rude isn’t a personality trait, and there’s absolutely no reason to be mean to someone who seems this sweet, and oddly delicate. Harry Evans is not a bully.

He doesn’t quite know what it was that upset her, so he just bluffs the best he can (no easy feat for someone who never usually goes back on things, or censors themselves). “I mean really, what even is a ‘Huffle-puff? It’s stupid and I refuse to accept it as anything but the joke that it is.” He pauses, and then decides to just play along for good measure. This whole castle is ridiculous and stupid, and makes his skin crawl, but he doesn’t have to make this girl as miserable as he feels. “What’s a—fuck--- I already forgot what you called it, the thing you just said.”

“A Wrackspurt. They’re invisible, they float around your head and make your brain go all fuzzy.”

“I must have a fuck tonne of them.”  
He intends it to be a joke, but his tone is just a little too flat to come out right.

“You get rid of them by thinking positive thoughts.”

“I’ll try that” (He won’t. It sounds a bit too much like the worst kind of therapy).

She stares at him, her eyes boring right into his, for a long moment. He’s the first to look away. “Are you alright, Harry?”

He usually hates-hates-hates being asked how he is, because it’s usually filled with condescension, and a lack of regard for his answer, but in this case, as Luna looks at him, he feels seen for the first time in a while, so he answers as truthfully as he can.   
“I’ve been better.”

“I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.” He tries to smile, offer some form of reassurance, but he can’t quite seem to manage it.

“Here.” She digs around in her bag for a moment, and then pulls out a magazine. “The Quibbler.” She says, almost proudly. “There’s an article about Wrackspurts in there.”

It’s a strange way to respond to him almost admitting that he’s very much not okay, but hey, he’ll take what he can get. “Oh, thanks, I’m not much of a reader though.”

“Perhaps we could look at it together some time.” She pushes it into his hands, and he finds that he doesn’t want to protest. “I’ll see you soon Harry, it was lovely to meet you.”

“You too.” And he actually means it. 

* * *

  
In some ways, Draco is grateful that he isn’t the only one who falls victim to the warpath of Harry Evans. Calling himself a ‘victim’ feels horribly dramatic and ironic, but he just can’t seem to help himself. Harry not liking him seems like an easier point of focus than everything else going on.

Professor Snape does not like Harry, barely making any effort to mask his contempt. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on the way you look at it), Harry isn’t some defenceless thing, curling up into a pathetic little ball when the teacher is mean to him.

“Mr Evans, I don’t expect you to understand what’s going on right now. Just observe the other more competent students, and then I’ll find you some exercises we give to the first years to complete, given how basic your understanding of potion making, and indeed essay writing seems to be.”

It does seem a little cruel to bring it up in front of the whole class, but Harry barely even reacts, just leans forwards slightly, balancing his elbow on the desk, next to where his foot is resting. Draco is sure that it can’t be comfortable to sit like that, that it’s just another way to annoy people.

“Do you have any questions, Mr Evans? Would you like me to explain the task again, maybe a little more slowly?”

“Oh, it’s quite alright Sir.” Harry bares his teeth in a slightly feral smile. “Although, I do have one question.”

“Go on then.”

“Are you actually an Incel, or do you just act like one?”

“Am I a what?”  
Draco is wondering the same thing. Snape’s voice is pinching with offense, despite the fact that he doesn’t truly understand what Harry said. It’s pretty evident from context that it isn’t exactly a compliment.

“You know, involuntary celibate, adult virgin, never shagged a lady because they’re repulsed by you?” Harry blinks his eyes innocently, with an expression that screams, ‘I’ve never done anything wrong in my whole life’. He continues to speak, choosing to ignore the figurative steam pouring out of Snape’s ears. “I mean, it can’t be looks, I’m sure someone out there has a grease fetish, so it must just be your rancid personality.”

Draco is pretty sure that he stops breathing halfway through Harry speaking. He can’t wrap his head around how Harry is so confident, so able to be brave and say things like that. Draco wishes he could be brave like that (although he’d probably use his bravery in a different way).

Snape’s response is somewhat delayed, probably because he was frozen in shock, along with the rest of them, but when he finally bursts into motion, he goes a shade of red that Draco’s never seen a person go before, and shouts something about insubordination. Harry is standing up before he’s even been ordered out of the room. It takes Snape nearly ten whole minutes to calm down enough to teach the lesson.

Draco has to press his fingertips into his palms quite hard to stop himself from laughing. It’s not funny. It’s really not. (Okay, it might be, just a little).

*** 

He goes back to his room before lunch, needing the silence to gather himself again. He can’t fully lose his grip on things, on himself. Not this early on. Not when all that he’s tackled today is school, and he’s enlisted in an actual war, one which is rapidly approaching. A war that he can’t even begin to start considering again. Not now. He just wants to sit down on one of the chairs, maybe reread a bit of a book he had when he was younger. He just wants everything to be quiet, and stable and still, if only for a moment.

But apparently, things can never go his way, because Harry is already in their shared area, draped upside down in one of the chairs, head nearly touching the ground, legs in the air, with a snake wrapped around one of them, hissing softly. The fact that Harry had a snake wrapped around on of his limbs barely even phases Draco at this point. Everything about him seems to be shocking.

Harry scoffs as he approaches (he’s actually heading towards his bedroom door). “God, you again, are you stalking me or something?”

“I…”, Draco pauses to scrutinise Harry, unsure if he’s being made fun of, or if Harry actually believes that. He finds that he genuinely can’t tell. He replies in a sarcastic drawl, regardless. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I live in this castle, I’m staying in the room next to you.”

Harry slowly swivels in the chair, pivoting his legs downwards, offering an arm for the snake to wrap around. He stands up, stepping lazily towards Draco. “Sure you are pal.” His tone is condescending and disbelieving. Draco wonders how he ever could’ve thought that Harry was funny earlier, when really, it's a lot more complex.

“You are one of the most confusing people I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Oh” Harry pitches his voice lower, leaning in as close as he can, standing slightly on his tiptoes so that their faces are on the same level, almost cheek to cheek. Draco can see his reflection in Harry’s glasses. He can see the peach fuzz above Harry’s lips. He can see the curve of Harry’s jaw. He can see the end of Harry’s scar, slicing through his eyebrow slightly. He can see the folds and the dark smudges under Harry’s eyes. He can feel Harry’s breath on his skin. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Harry’s tone, Harry’s eyes, Harry’s smirk are knowing.

Draco wants to just leave it. Just walk away from Harry who is infuriatingly complicatedly impossible to deal with. But he still has his pride. Even if he does feel dull and scrunched up, and not as fully there as he used to, he’s still a person. He still deserves some modicum of respect.   
“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Deliberately make people uncomfortable.”

Harry stares at him for a long moment, eyes intense with some emotion that Draco couldn’t even begin to comprehend.   
“It’s better when you’re doing it on purpose.”

Draco understands Harry Evans even less. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> I cannot stop introducing new characters I cannot help it but I will not apologise I want them here


	23. Up in smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of Dumbledore POV (get inside that pyscho's head)

There’s a child, a first or second year with dark hair and a green tie, crying in the corridor. Draco could just carry on walking, pretend he doesn’t notice. Pretend that it doesn’t twist something up inside him, something deep and dark and complicated. But there’s no one else around, and he pauses for a moment too long.

The child answers the unspoken, ‘What’s wrong?’

“I’m just not ‘posed to be Slytherin. My Ma was Ravenclaw. I don’t wanna be evil.” The crying gets louder, more pained and pathetic, “I’m not bad, I’m good. Why would they put me here?”

And it reminds Draco so much of the person that he never was that he almost starts crying himself. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows he’s meant to touch this kid on the shoulder and say that the house is only what you make it, that not all Slytherin’s are bad, that you can choose your own path. But it feels kind of hypocritical when his own rottenness is on his flesh in black and white. He’s supposed to reassure this kid, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t have the words, doesn’t have the energy, doesn’t even believe it himself.

He hears a door open further down the corridor, and he figures that someone else is coming, someone else with deal with this, and do a better job than he ever could.  
Draco turns on his heel and leaves.   


Later, in their shared area, where Harry seems to have taken up a semi-permanent residence, Harry is pacing, and seething.  
“This whole house thing is a bunch of shit, genuinely.”

“Merlin, what are you annoyed about now?”  
Draco tries to sound unbothered, despite the fact that Harry is not only very attractive, but also very terrifying.

“How dare they? How fucking dare they make a kid cry over something so fucking pointless?”

“Children cry, it’s what they do.” When did he get so calloused?

Harry fixes him with this annoyed, condescending look. “Yes, blondie. Children do in fact cry, but they’re still people. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Draco knows he should be more bothered about that ‘what is wrong with you?’ part of that statement, the part that forces him to confront his own faults and flaws and shortcomings, but for some reason he’s caught up on the fact that Harry just called him ‘blondie’. A strange thought pops into his mind. Does Harry… not know his name?

Harry snorts at the lack of response, the lack of justification about what exactly is wrong with him from Draco, and continues. “But she thinks she’s like a fucking villain now or something. She thinks that this house shit is fucking real, and actually worth something.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Everyone keeps saying that Slytherin is bad news, that it’s like an evil house… The way they treat them, like fucking ostracising them because of where a hat made them sit, no wonder people go bad.”

“What?” Draco gapes at him, having never heard this take before in his life. People rarely try to justify why the House system is the way it is.

“People become like what you treat them” says Harry, with the confidence of a thousand lifetimes. “People treated me like a criminal long before I ‘broke the law’. People treated me like a fucking freak, and look where I am now. If you treat people like they’re outsiders, or unredeemable, or guilty until proven innocent, or whatever the fuck, if you treat them like they have to earn respect, then no wonder they go fucking rouge. I don’t blame them.”

Draco has a feeling that Harry isn’t really talking about the Houses anymore. There’s something about the way he says it, so practiced and punchy and alive with emotion.

“She’s eleven years old, and they’ve already made up their minds.”

Draco can’t help himself. “When did they make up their mind about you?”

Harry stares at him for a long moment, scrutinising him. “Long before that.”

“Did you become everything they said you were?”

Harry steps closer, something he has a habit of doing at this point, getting right up in Draco’s personal space. A smirk, half sad, half knowing.   
“I guess we’ll have to find out.”

* * *

Albus is concerned. The situation at hand may merit something closer to actual full blown worry, but he’s learned, over the years, that panicking gets you nowhere.

There’s a war brewing. They all know it. Sightings of Death Eaters are growing by the day, and there have already been a handful of murders. Targeted, for maximum effect, he’s sure, and only a taste of what’s sure to come. At first they were chosen less for tactic, and more for effect, to send a message, ruffle feathers. A retired member of the Order found strung up in his home. A Muggleborn ministry official killed. An academic in the field of Muggle studies found dead at her desk. There was even an attempt on Arthur Weasley’s life, and he would’ve made a prime target, muggle sympathiser and blood traitor.

But then, there was a change in the tide. Alastor Moody was murdered, and everything shifted. Apprehension was replaced with fear. Fear, because of Moody’s reputation, his fighting skill, his pureblood status. Fear, because Moody halfway won the war for them last time, and his death felt like a sign, like a warning, that this time they may not be so lucky. It was at that point that people started to flee, leaving the country like rats from a sinking ship. Albus himself wasn’t tempted, of course, he has a sense of loyalty and duty to his country, and indeed to this war, but he knows others who were. It was strange, the amount of turmoil that that one death caused. There was talk of not reopening Hogwarts, which was of course ridiculous. Hogwarts is the safest place on earth, and besides, the fear soon gave way to dread, which is far easier to manage.

And then they found Harry Potter. It felt like a miracle, it felt like a sign.   
But when Albus met him, all of his hopes were dashed.

Harry was not the Hero type. Harry was not the leader type. Harry was not even the likable type. And something dangerous, something terrifying, flashed in his eyes right before he set that sofa ablaze. Something that felt painfully like de-ja-vu, like history repeating itself.   
Harry was too powerful, too volatile, too unwilling to listen to him, to listen to reason. Harry was too moulded into his own person to be what Albus needed from him. Any hope of powerful speeches, rallies of hope, brave and selfless actions, went up in smoke with that sofa. And things only got worse from there. 

Before they found Harry, before Voldemort, or Tom as Albus privately knows him, returned, Albus will admit that he grew bored. It’s not that he enjoyed the war. The war was dark, and painful, and many good people lost their lives. He just missed having a mission, having a purpose. So when the search for Harry failed to yield any results, he decided to create a project for himself, to fill the idle moments. He decided to locate and collect priceless, long lost relics. His main targets were the artefacts of the Hogwarts Founders. Although he fancied himself the owner of all three of the Deathly Hallows, two of which were already in his possession, he also fancied himself the owner of all four of those artefacts. He reasoned that if anyone deserved them, he did.

He already had the sword of Gryffindor, of course, but with a little digging, and the use of his considerable sway and ability to pull a few strings at Gringotts and the Ministry, he was able to locate the diadem of Ravenclaw, and the goblet of Hufflepuff. The location of the locket of Salazar Slytherin remained a mystery at first, but Albus wasn’t perturbed. The house of Slytherin always meant the least to him.

It was through his collecting of these priceless artefacts, something that he should’ve done much sooner, and his subsequent experimentation on them, that his worst fears were affirmed. Tom Riddle, did indeed create Horcruxes, and that meant that there was a chance that he could come back. The idea that Tom could return at any time was sobering, but Albus did what any reasonable person would do. He collected evidence, and information, and kept his fears to himself, seeing no use in panicking the Wizarding World prematurely. From Slughorn, he learned that there were likely six Horcruxes out there, well: four when he was finished with the goblet and diadem.

Five months before Harry’s return, he found Slytherin’s locket by a stroke of luck, when he was discussing the artefacts with Remus at Grimauld Place, and the House elf, who’s name he can’t recall, shuffled forward, clutching it in his fist, agreeing to hand it over on the condition that Albus destroyed it. He did it there and then, just to be safe. He had to tell Remus then, it was the only way to justify destroying a priceless relic. Remus wasn’t happy, but he agreed to keep his ear to the ground, and help with the search for the remaining three Horcruxes. The location and subsequent destruction of Marvalo Gaunt’s ring was a lengthy process, and it left his hand shrivelled and blackened, but with a well placed charm, people hardly seemed to notice, and it seemed like a worthy price to pay to take down Tom Riddle.

It was never about him, never about stroking his own ego, of course it wasn’t. But there was something incredibly affirming about the fact that pretty much singlehandedly, he had brought them so close, two steps away if Slughorn was to be trusted, to ridding the world from Tom Riddle for good. Albus was never a boastful man, but finally owning all three of the Deathly Hallows is worthy of note, and he did that. He accomplished that, all by himself (well, the death of James Potter helped).

So yes, despite the murders, and the rapidly worsening situation, Albus could only bring himself to be mildly concerned, because not only did he own the most powerful wand in existence, he was also halfway there in regards to beating Tom Riddle. 

But then he met Harry. At first, he could chalk the anger and resentment, and the bouts of visceral and uncontrolled magic, to Harry’s character, to his upbringing. But then came the snake. Then came the Parseltongue. And Albus was left with the painful realisation, so glaring obvious that even a blind man could see it. Harry himself was a Horcrux.

Harry has to die before the war can be won.   
Neither one may live whilst the other one survives.  
Harry Potter will die, by Albus’ own hand if needs be.   
This cannot be a war that they lose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Dumbledore is bonkers (I tried to get his like inner tone right but it's hard when I am convinced that he has no emotions)
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	24. Judging books by their covers

Harry Potter, or Evans, or whatever he calls himself, is insufferable.   
Hermione has come to that conclusion after only a week of occasionally being in the same classroom as him. Not only does he not do the work, or even listen, he’s distracting to everyone else, picking fights with the teachers, Snape especially. Hermione has long since decided that Snape has it coming, what with the calloused, self righteous way he treats them, especially Neville, but she wishes that a side effect of that wasn’t her learning being disrupted.

He also seems to be the worst thing possible for the war effort, nothing like what they imagined, and nothing like what they need. It’s strange to group herself in with the Order, and the others facing You-Know-Who, but Hermione isn’t the kind to sit docile and passive. When the war comes, she plans to fight, even if she isn’t officially part of any organisation.

When McGonagall approaches her, she’s more than a little annoyed.

“Harry may adjust better if it’s coming from a fellow student.”

And Hermione wants to argue, but McGonagall has a point. Neither of them knows Harry as a person, but what Hermione does know, from personal experience, is that little support from your peers can go a long way. And besides, she’s a Prefect, and she wants to be Head Girl, so it makes sense. Just another box ticked on her reference as it were.

“Yes of course, Miss. When would you like me to start?”

The next day feels a little sudden, but there’s no time like the present.   
Entering the classroom, she feels that bubbling of nerves which she hasn’t felt in a while. She’s good at pushing that sort of thing down, focusing on what needs to be done.

“Hello.” She pauses, gathering herself, “Harry isn’t it?”   
She asks it as if she isn’t keenly aware of exactly who, and what, he is.

He’s sitting cross legged on a desk, wearing a patchwork jumper that just could be handknitted. It softens him somehow, makes him seem more human. “The one and only.”

“Professor McGonagall said you might need some help with your charms?” In fact, she said that he might need help with his ‘everything’, but charms seem as good a place as any to start.

“Awfully nice of you really, to tutor the headcase.”

She pauses for a beat, sizing him up. She can tell by now that he thrives on other people’s discomfort. She won’t give him the satisfaction. “Oh. I’m just doing my bit for charity.”

His face splits into a wide grin, which is only slightly unnerving. “Fine, I’ll play along.” He pulls his wand out, from behind his ear of all places. “But I warn you, it doesn’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it doesn’t work.” He repeats, slowly, staring at her as if she’s stupid or something, “I take it in, I take it out, I shake it all about, and nothing, nada.”

“That’s not normal.”

“I’m not sure what I’m meant to do about that. It’s not as if I can just wave a magic wand and fix it.”

“Right.” She stares at him for another long moment, unsure of what to think. A wizard with a wand that doesn’t work properly isn’t unheard of, especially when it’s inherited by a family member, rather than custom chosen for them, but she’s never encountered someone who’s wand simply doesn’t work at all.

Harry starts to spin it between his fingertips, seemingly uncaring of the magical power it yields, (or apparently, doesn’t). “God. My magic stick won’t do magic. It’s simply a stick. I’m a boy with a stick.” He says the last part with an exaggerated, emphatic flair, and she can see the sparkle of humour, of teasing, in his eyes. She finds herself drawn to it slightly, like a moth to a flame.

“Okay, forget the ‘stick’ for now, what can you do without it.”

“Oh.” The glimmer in Harry’s eyes becomes a bit manic, “All sorts of things.”

“Are you going to show me?”

“You’ll have to earn it. My tricks don’t come free.”

“I am literally here, spending my free time helping you out, and you want me to pay you for that?”

He seems to consider it for a moment, and then sighs. “Fine. I guess you’ve got a point. But for the record, you couldn’t have afforded me.”

She has no idea what that means, no idea what he’s on about at all. She wants to get back to safe ground, back to charms, and spells, and things that make sense.   
“So what can you do?”

“I’ll show you, but first, answer me this.” He leans in, like whatever he’s about to say is some massive secret. “Are you… normal?”

Normal is a loaded word, especially for someone like Hermione, who thrives on being extraordinary. But in that moment, her mind is blank as to what exactly he could possibly mean by it. “What?”

“Like your parents, they’re normal right?”

“Do you mean, ‘am I Muggleborn’?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Sure, whatever you want to call it.”

“I mean… that’s what it’s called.” He scrunches up his nose, like he doesn’t believe her. “But yes, I am.”

She can’t see him having a problem with it, given his own upbringing, but she’s been called enough slurs, faced enough prejudice, seen enough rottenness and evil in the world that she knows it’s never safe to assume things like that.

“So all of this shit is fucking insane, right? Like I’m not the crazy one here?”

Oh. So it isn’t about her at all. She pauses for a moment, puts her best empathetic hat on. Lavender’s been trying to teach her how to better consider other people’s feelings since way back in first year, and she has gotten better at it. Or as Dean puts it, ‘less sociopathic’.   
Being introduced to magic, and all of the implications of it was jarring, and lifechanging, but also wonderful, because she was eleven years old, still filled with childish delight in the world. She can’t even begin to imagine how differently she would react if she was brought to Hogwarts now, without any support from her parents. She can’t even begin to consider who she would be if she hadn’t been to Hogwarts. It seems impossible to fathom.

“It’s pretty insane, yes. But I’ve gotten used to it.” Is the measured response.

“I don’t wanna, ‘get used to it’, that’s how people get brainwashed.”

He picks at his sleeve, pulling at a fraying end of thread. When Ron does that, she tells him off, says he’ll ruin the stitching. She bites her tongue to avoid saying anything to Harry. He probably wouldn’t take it very well.

“It’s just all this bloody learning. It’s like come on, look at me, I’m stunningly attractive! How can I be expected to be intelligent as well?”

Hermione can’t supress an eyeroll at that. He’s good looking, that’s for sure. The kind of ‘exotic’ beauty that the girls on her estate back at home titter about. The kind of ethnically ambiguous handsome that makes them feel cultured, just for being with him. He’s only joking, and besides, it’s not his fault, of course it’s not his fault, but it still stirs up some complicated feelings in her.

“But then of course, some people have looks and brains, and some people have neither. It’s life’s lottery I suppose.” He continues, contemplative.

“What are you on about?”

“Just judging books by their covers!” He replies, brightly.

“Oh, so you really are as much of an arse as they say.” She finds her tone is strangely light, and teasing.

“You guys talk about me?!” he gasps, hand on his heart, “Only good things, I hope.”

“Sure.” She deadpans, “Now show me what you can do, I have a lesson to get to in forty minutes.”

Less than thirty seconds later, she’s suspended in mid-air, and Harry is smirking up at her.   
“Wow” she says, breathless, and slightly nervous. There’s a reason, after all, that she doesn’t play Quidditch. It has less to do with her lack of skill, and more to do with her lack of a death wish.

“Oh.” Harry grins, “Wait until you see this.”

* * *

  
Harry is bored.

He’s played it mean, he’s played it nice. He’s been more of a prick than usual, he’s been inflammatory, he’s been reactionary. He’s been sweeter and softer than he has in years. He’s been on the edge of flirting, he’s been on the edge of exploding. He’s felt more feelings in the past month than he’s allowed himself to feel in years. It’s overwhelming and ridiculous and he just wants to go home. He wants to see Aman, mostly. Seeing Aman is always salve to the wound (even if the wound in question is of his own making). Aman makes it better, he makes it brighter. He’s annoying, he says stupid shit all of the time, he sometimes makes Harry feel so small just by existing (because he’s smarter and stronger and more whole and more complete, and less of a husk with barely anything left inside). But Harry likes him. Harry likes him a lot. He’s funny and distracting and so earnest. He tries, which is more than can be said for most of the people in Harry’s life.

Harry wrote him a letter a few days ago, it’s still in his pocket, with no envelope, no address, no stamp. The fact he doesn’t even know his own boyfriend’s postcode is slightly hard to wrap his head around. The letter is short, and almost incomprehensible.

_“Aman,_   
_It’s insane here. Bunch of Tory pricks, everyone’s properly posh. The ‘magic’ I do isn’t even right, so I’m bottom of the class here too. I miss you (and your mum’s baklava). I’ll see you soon._   
_Harry”_

It’s not some soppy love letter. It’s Harry complaining, like he always does, and expecting Aman to be sympathetic, like he always is. It makes Harry feel stupid and selfish, because Aman has his own life to deal with, without freakish things like Harry Evans getting in the way. He’ll have started Sixth Form by now. He’ll have homework and classwork, and other commitments, and Harry is scared (so scared) that Aman doesn’t miss him.

Because when he really stops to think about it, he doesn’t really see how anyone could miss him. He’s unlikable, intolerable. He’s a prick. Back home he proved it, time and again, and here he’s just falling into the same patterns. And yes, he’s angry for a reason. He’s a prick because of the way he’s being treated, because this whole situation is insane, and unhinged, and nothing about it is okay. And before that, he was a prick because of things that happened to him (things he’d rather not dwell on). But he’s draining to be around. He’s difficult to be around. He finds it difficult to be himself sometimes (and god, he needs to stop with this self-hating bullshit. This is the worst kind of low). But he can’t help but wonder if he didn’t do Aman a favour when he left that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JK Rowling is a freak and I hate her can she shut up already... the audacity to publish an entire novel which is fully just hate speech... awful sick twisted lady. 
> 
> Anyways....
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter I have ordained myself the new author of the harry potter series


	25. Be careful.

Luna never usually eats in the Great Hall at breakfast time. She likes watching the morning sky, so she gathers extra food at supper, buttered bread and pastries and apples. When the berries on the bushes by the forest are ripe, she eats them by the handful. They aren’t as good as the ones in her garden back at home, but then again, nothing is as good at Hogwarts.

At home she has her father, and her paints, and her creatures. At school she’s rather lonely. Well no: at school she’s rather alone. Most days she can get through from start to finish without feeling lonely at all. She reads, and she draws, and she walks, and she talks to all the creatures she encounters, and she barely even notices that people step aside to avoid her in the corridors. She smiles vacantly when they call her names, and she reminds herself that it’s okay that they don’t understand, that some day people will, and even if they don’t, she understands enough for everyone. She has a creatures, she has her father, and everyone feels alone sometimes.

No one understands Harry Evans either. She sees the looks they give him, she hears the gossip, electric in the air:

“Did you hear what he called Snape yesterday?”,

“Why’s he dressed like that? Would it kill him to just act normal?”,

“No one’s even seen him do magic yet, I reckon he’s a squib, that’s why they hid him away.”,

“I heard he can talk to snakes, just like You-Know-Who, isn’t that sort of suspect?”,

“I don’t know why he’s so rude when they’re only trying to help.”,

“He’s just a bad person. What? Everyone’s thinking it!”.

The way he snarls and sneers and seethes doesn’t help, but anger is a natural human emotion. Luna doesn’t much like being angry, but she knows that it happens to everyone, from time to time, and Harry has more reason for anger than most. And besides, Luna has spoken to him. She doesn’t know him of course, she’s not sure that it’s possible to _ever_ truly know another person, but she thinks she might understand him, just a little.

That’s why she decides to turn the other way that morning, heading for the Great Hall, instead of her usual spot outside. The bushes don’t have any berries, and the sky is overcast, and though she likes the rain, she isn’t really dressed for the cold. She realises halfway there that she’s wearing odd shoes, one of them a yellow dress shoe that her father gave her as a gift, and the other a muggle ‘trainer’, laced in purple. It’s too late to turn back, and she sort of likes the way it looks, her two feet side by side, but so jarringly different. The shoes are slightly different heights so they add a strange jaunt to her walk, and she pretends to be a different person, an old medieval woman with a limp heading to market to sell her potions, or a child with a stone in her shoe hurrying home before sunset comes so her mother doesn’t worry. It’s a fun game to play, being someone else, but she’s always happy to become herself again when it’s all over.

When she steps into the Hall, she spots him instantly, glowering in the corner, hunched up over his plate. He’s cross legged on the bench, fiddling with the laces of his boots. No other Slytherin is sitting within a metre of him, they’re all bunched up further down, preferring to knock elbows and get into each other’s personal space, over sitting anywhere close to Harry. It makes her sort of sad, and sort of determined.   
She’s not sure if he even wants her there, but she figures that she might as well try.   
She strides over to the Slytherin table with unearned confidence, walking around it and sliding onto the bench next to Harry, being sure to leave a good amount of distance between them. She saw how twitchy he got last time. The table falls silent as she settles herself, and she knows that it isn’t just because she’s not a Slytherin. Now she’s closer, she can see that his boots are laced up in odd colours, one purple, and one yellow. It feels sort of like fate.

“Hello Harry.” She says airily, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Luna.” He responds, with a nod, and a small smile. There’s this sparkle of amusement in his eyes, and she can tell that, for once, it’s not at her expense. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I usually eat my breakfast outside, but you know, too many Wrackspurts.”

Harry’s smile grows slightly wider. “They’ve had a good breeding season this year, you know.”

Him saying that leaves a sort of warm feeling in her chest. She’s handed out many copies of the Quibbler, but she can count on her fingers how many people have actually bothered to read it. “Oh! You saw the article, how did you like it?”

“It was good yeah, nice big font”, he grimaces after he says that, like he didn’t mean to say that. The font in the Quibbler is rather large, but her father likes it that way. ‘When things are interesting, you’ve got to write them big and bold!’ is his mantra.

“I much prefer when things are printed to when they’re written by hand.”  
She hates writing with her quill. The ink always gets smudged everywhere, and once it gets in her hair, it takes weeks to get it fully out again.

“Yes! Thank you for being the only sane one in this castle.”  
She laughs slightly at the irony of that statement being directed at her.

“You want some?” he tips his plate, still full of about five bits of pumpkin pie, towards her.

“No, I’m quite alright.” She pulls her buttered roll out of her pocket to demonstrate as much, and he tips back his head slightly, letting out a short huffing laugh.

“Are your pockets just full of loose bread?”

“Of course.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

Suddenly, a voice cuts across them.

“Makes sense you’d be sitting here, Loony.” It’s one of the Ravenclaw boys from the year above her, Michael, she thinks he’s called. He always feels the need to blatantly remind her of how much he dislikes her. He’s standing on the far side of the table, flanked by a few friends, all three sneering. Luna can see the exact moment that Harry’s guard goes back up, his face hardens, and his eyes lose their lustre.

“Don’t call her that.” Even his voice pitches lower, gains this sort of growling quality. It’s strange, Luna realises, that she can’t remember the last time someone stuck up for her like this.

“I mean, it’s sort of sweet, the two crazies finding each other.” Michael continues, unphased by the aggression in Harry’s tone. Luna can’t tell yet whether that makes him brave or stupid.

“Shut the fuck up.” Luna can see the tension in Harry’s shoulder, the white knuckled fists his hands are forming. It’s sort of unsettling, how quick he is to rise to anger. She doesn’t like violence, but at the same time, she doesn’t like cruelty. It’s a difficult toss up, especially when Michael’s words, his half baked insults, don’t make much of an impact anymore.

“Aw, how chivalrous, protecting his little girlfriend.”

“Firstly, I’m gay. Secondly, she’s a big girl, she doesn’t need anyone’s ‘protection’. But you should be careful how you speak to people, I’d hate for something to happen to that pretty face of yours.”

Michael’s face morphs into something like disgust. “The freak and the fag.” He jeers, “How fitting!”

Luna isn’t quite sure what happens next. It’s a difficult situation to comprehend. What she does know it that Michael’s nose suddenly twists sideways, erupting into a stream of blood. What she does know is as he screams in pain, and grasps at his face, two black eyes begin to bloom beneath his fingers, a split and swollen lip is revealed when he moves his hand away.

What she does know is that when she turns to face Harry, he’s smiling again, dark and wild.

“Harry.” She places a hand on his arm, soft and steady, trying to reign him in slightly. Anger is a complicated emotion after all, and rage makes you blind.

Harry blinks it off, shaking himself slightly. And then he turns to Michael, who’s choking back tears, cradling his battered face in his hands. He tuts softly, shaking his head like he’s scolding a child.  
“I told you to be careful.”

* * *

It feels like a bit of an overreaction on their part to send him to the headteacher’s office.

It’s not like he actually touched the other kid, and besides, he wasn’t the one spewing hate speech.   
Although to be fair, it was the first F word that got him more riled up.   
He’s not _used_ to being called a ‘fag’. He doesn’t think anyone is, or at least, they shouldn’t be. It’s an ugly word, to match the uglier sentiment, all twisted and dark. But it doesn’t cut as deep as it used to. Even the night with the green light (one that he’s put away inside one of the little boxes in his mind, and done his best not to think about) even that night didn’t make the impact it should’ve. He thinks it might just be pretty fucking telling that an attempted hate crime barely dented his psyche.

Dumbledoo isn’t happy. He’s doing that face again, the one he seems to do constantly around Harry. The ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’. He’s sitting behind his desk, hands folded neatly in front of him. Harry stares down at the polished wood. It’s so shiny that he can almost see his own reflection.

“Harry, you can’t act like this.”

Harry doesn’t even bother looking up. “So expel me then.”

“What?”

“I’m waiting old man. Expel me.”  
He isn’t calling Dumbledoo’s bluff. He’s just fed up. He wants to go home. In truth, he doesn’t understand why he hasn’t just cut his losses and left already. It’s that stupid twisted feeling inside him demanding that he stay, reminding him that things might not be much better off back home. His own twisted insecurities.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”   
Harry hates Dumbledoo. He hates everything about him. He hates that knowing glint in his eyes. He hates the way that his every word is measured and precise. He hates his clothes and his hair and this stupid office with that stupid fucking bird on a perch.

“Isn’t it?” Harry tips back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, feigning boredom. “You clearly don’t want me here, and I want to go back to my life in London, so why don’t we cut our losses and expel me already?”

“I’ve already told you Harry, it isn’t safe for you to return to London.”

“I think I’ve proven that I can handle myself.”

“It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

Harry feels himself starting to boil over slightly, fists clenched, fingertips prickling. He doesn’t bother counting himself down. “Well actually, _sir_ , I don’t fucking know it, because no one will give me a straight answer about any of this.”

“Harry.”

He’s going to explode if he stays here for a moment longer. He’s going to burst into lava and fire and flame and rage. He can feel it building, uncurling and untethering itself inside him. “Can I leave?”

“No, I just said—”

“Not leave the castle, you prick, leave this room.”

“We haven’t discussed this properly.”

He starts his count. As much as he’d like to shatter every glass bottle lining these walls, he knows that in the long run, learning to get a grip over himself is more important. “I think we have.”

“Harry, you can’t just go around hurting people like that.”

“But when you hurt me, that’s fine, is it?” He’s standing, and leaning forward, bridging the gap over the desk, snarling right in Dumbledoo’s face, fingers taut and tense against the tabletop. He’s so close that he can see his own reflection in those stupid fucking half-moon glasses. He doesn’t recognise himself.

“Harry, I—”

“Yeah, I’m leaving.”

Dumbledoo doesn’t make a move to stop him. Harry slams the door so hard that he hears the wood splinter and crack. He bolts down the stairs, fingers fumbling with a cigarette. He doesn’t notice the wind whistling behind him, snuffing out the candles as he stomps down the corridor. He doesn’t notice how every cobblestone shatters beneath his feet.

But Dumbledore does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might get a bit sporadic because I am moving out in literally three days! (Hurrah)
> 
> Harry is angry angry angry (and rightfully so) and things are getting worse with Dumbledore!
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	26. Fucking weird, man

Harry hasn’t done much by way of socialising with his fellow ‘housemates’, mostly because they annoy the shit out of him. They’re pretentious and arrogant, and most of them aren’t even good looking enough to get away with it. He’s only had two vaguely positive interactions since he got here, and both have been with girls from other ‘houses’.

Unfortunately good things never last, and he finds himself trapped in the Slytherin common room, literally surrounded by the pricks that he’s been trying his best to avoid.

The blond kid he sort of shares a room with isn’t anywhere in sight, and that makes Harry strangely sad. He doesn’t like Blondie (and fucking hell, he really needs to pay more attention to people’s names), not exactly. The boy is tightly wound, and stuck up, and so impossibly sad (Harry can see it in that far off look in his eyes). But it’s so fun, and so easy, to wind him up. All Harry has to do is talk in that low, flirtatious voice (the one that makes Aman laugh and laugh and laugh), and step up into the boy’s personal space, and Harry’s got him.

Another thing which makes him miss Blondie slightly is the fact that he actually shuts up, on occasion, unlike this other boy, who will not stop fucking talking.   
It’s when he says the word ‘Pureblood’ for the fifth time that Harry snaps.

He has a vague recollection of being taught what that means in one of his makeshift lessons, but the memory is hazy. What he does know, however, is that this boy is pissing him off. That word (and the strange superiority complex that seems to come with it) is pissing him off.

“Hey, you!” He clicks his fingers lazily, to get the boy’s attention. It works, because the boy turns around, narrowing his eyes at Harry, clearly annoyed at the interruption,

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The boy splutters slightly, his cheeks reddening. Everyone here seems to have a very short fuse, and coming from Harry, that’s really saying something.   
“I don’t see how this is any of your concern, Potter.” The boy spits the last word like it’s a slur.

“Not my name!” Harry replies, in a sing song voice. “But I am begging you to just be quiet, just for five minutes. I can feel myself getting more thick just listening to you.”

“I wouldn’t expect a half blood like you to understand.”

“Well. That’s the fucking weirdest description of being mixed race that I have ever heard.” Harry leans back, brow slightly furrowed, “I mean, I pegged you for a racist, but calling someone half blood… that’s not just racist, it’s also fucking weird, man.”

The boy stares at him for a long moment. “Half blood means that one of your parents is a muggle, and the other is a witch or wizard.” He says slowly, as if he’s explaining something to a young child.

Harry’s brain makes a quick adjustment, “So it’s still racism then, just a different flavour?”

“I don’t—”

“So you’re ‘pureblood’ because you’re full wizard? Why does it even matter. It’s fucking weird man, doesn’t everyone have the same powers or whatever the fuck?”

“Again, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

And there he goes again, with the fucking superiority complex. These people are truly insufferable.   
“So explain it to me.” Harry raises both eyebrows (he’s crap at raising just the one), “I’m waiting…”

“Well Muggleborns are just a fluke. Us Purebloods come from a long, undiluted line of pure magical power, untainted by Muggles.”

“You sound fucking insane. Just because you’re probably inbred, that makes you better? Okay King Tut.”

“King what?”

“Have you not heard of the Ancient Egyptians… I swear to god…” Harry presses his temple with his fingers, because that’s what people do to show they’re frustrated. The fact that these people don’t even seem to have a primary school level of awareness of the world is more than a little disconcerting. “You are aware that this weird supremacist shite is made up? It’s just more divide and conquer crap, pitting groups against each other.”

The boy doesn’t answer, which kind of annoys Harry. It’s no fun debating (arguing) with people when they stop fighting back. It’s also no fun because he knows for a fact that he was winning.

It’s sort of strange, when he first got here, he thought they were all a bunch of Tories, but now (at least of some of them), are shaping up to be a lot more like the EDL.

God, he really hopes that he isn’t in the EDL house. 

* * *

Draco does a double take when he walks into their shared area. He’s not really sure why he’s surprised at this point. Harry seems to be everywhere he turns, occupying the space, scratching away at the little walls inside his head.

Draco heard what he said in the Great Hall at breakfast a few days ago. “Firstly, I’m gay.” He’s gay. Harry is gay, and he just said it, just like that, with no shame, or fear. He just said it, like a fact. Of course, right afterwards he got called a slur (and then beat someone up with his mind), but he still said it.

He tries to put it out of his head, because his situation and Harry’s situation couldn’t be more different. Harry is pretty much a muggle, and has made it very clear that he doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinions. Draco is a pureblood heir, and he cares so much that it hurts sometimes. And on another, slightly cruel note, Draco’s father would disown him if he knew, and Harry’s father is dead.

But still, Draco can’t help but wish that he was a little more fearless, a little more able to be the person that he is. And Harry is there again, to remind him of all of his shortcomings. 

As he steps into the room, and gets a closer look at why Harry has his head angled up to one side, and an arm wrapped around his own neck, he finds that he’s suddenly distracted from all of his introspection.

“Merlin, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Harry’s voice is slightly muffled on account of the fact that he has a needle between his teeth. His left ear is dripping blood.   
Draco watches it, slightly mesmerised.

“Poking holes in yourself?”

“Please.” Harry scoffs, “I’m beautifying myself.”

“You know there’s charms for that.”

“It’s more fun the old fashioned way.”

Draco doesn’t really understand what’s fun about jabbing yourself with a sewing needle, but he doesn’t really understand most of the things that Harry does. Maybe it’s a Muggle thing.   
“Sure looks like it.”

“Beauty is pain, my darling, surely you know that by now.” Harry looks him up and down, his bright green eyes dragging slowly across Draco’s body. “On second thoughts, maybe not.”

It makes him strangely self-conscious.  
He’s rarely insecure about his looks, and one pointed glance from Harry should not be enough to change that. 

He's about to say something else, when Harry jabs the needle into his earlobe again, without looking, and seemingly with reckless abandon. He shoves an earring into it, seemingly unphased by the pain.

“There’s something wrong with you, like genuinely.”

“And yet”, Harry brandishes the needle, turning his head so that Draco can see the studs in his ears, five of them in a strange, lopsided formation, travelling up the side, where there used to only be one, “It looks so right.”

Draco huffs in response, silently admiring the jewellery, but refusing to give Harry the ego boost from knowing that.

He wonders, just for a moment, if there’s a reason that Harry always seems to lounge around in the place where they’re most likely to encounter each other. He wonders, just for a moment, if Harry might feel as confused, and entranced, as he does. (‘Firstly, I’m gay’, echoes in his ears).   
He’s about to shake it off, about to retreat back into his room, about to face the heavy and painful fact that things are complicated enough as is. But he wants to know. He needs to know. 

* * *

  
“Did you mean it?”  
Blondie’s tone is tentative, like he’s walking on eggshells or something. Harry’s ear throbs.

“Mean what?”

“In the Great Hall, you said, ‘Firstly, I’m gay’, did you mean it?”

“Yes? Of course I did. Why else would I say it?”  
Harry’s tone is a little more aggressive than it perhaps needs to be, (but in fairness, it’s a stupid fucking question).

“I don’t know. I was just wondering.”

“God, are you about to say something homophobic as well, because I’m really not in the mood right now.” Harry hopes that, ‘not in the mood to turn your nose into a fountain of blood’ is implied.

Blondie pauses and takes a shuddering breath. “No I’m—I’m gay as well.”

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t say some asshole thing like ‘I guessed that already’ (but this does just go to show that his gaydar is impeccable). He just smiles, his nicest, softest smile. “Good for you, man.” He’s not quite sure why someone coming out to him is causing him to speak like an American frat boy, but he decides to just go with it.

Blondie deflates slightly, like he was expecting a different response, more of a response.

“Are you, like, out?”

“You’re the only one who knows.”

Harry feels his stomach clench at that. He knows that it’s easier to tell strangers, where their reaction will have little consequence, than it is to tell people who are close to you, but the fact that this boy is sixteen (or maybe seventeen, Harry still can’t tell how the years work), and he hasn’t told anybody else yet is rough. He doesn’t know how to respond. He’s no good at this stuff, this comforting others and offering words of wisdom.

He channels his inner American frat boy again. “I’m proud of you man.”

Blondie smiles, half sad, half happy.   
It’s not the worst possible outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDL is English defence league in the UK they are insane there's no other word for it (idk if that's common knowledge or not)
> 
> Am I projecting with the self ear piercing? Yes. 
> 
> Also..No words for the way jk Rowling is acting right now... separating the art from the artist is getting harder and harder


	27. Anywhere but here

After his ‘outburst’ in the Hall, Harry has noticed that most people give him even wider berth, not even looking at him unless absolutely necessary. For the three days after his little performance, he lives in a blissful bubble of very few people coming within punching distance of him (which is silly anyway, because he doesn’t need his fists to make them bleed). If he’d known that all it would take for people to actively avoid him was a couple of bruises (and a broken nose), well he’d have done it long ago. He’s seen the boy in the corridors a few times, and his nose is suspiciously straight (hah), which sort of annoys Harry, it would’ve nice to leave him with some sort of a reminder, a souvenir.

They tried to give him some form of a detention, but he made the executive decision that it was fucking idiotic, and didn’t show up. They tried to have another serious chat with him, so he set the table on fire. They didn’t try again after that.   
He doesn’t bother going to the lessons anymore. There’s no fucking point. Every time he sees a teacher, or that tutor girl, he turns in the opposite direction. He gets his food from the hall at mealtimes, and eats it in his room, or in an alcove in the hallways. No one stops him. Blondie doesn’t try to speak to him again, after the big coming out, and he doesn’t even see Luna. It’s not the worst things have ever been. He has three meals today, and a roof over his head, and no one is actively trying to hurt him. But at the same time, he feels like he’s itching under his skin, he feels like he’s prickling and aching and yearning to be anywhere but here. 

And on top of all of that shit, he’s out of weed.

The fact that he almost started crying when he realised that the baggie was empty is pretty fucking telling. He rolled one last joint out of the dregs in his grinder, and tucked it behind his ear (not because it’s comfortable, or convenient (especially when he’s pretty sure that at least two of his lovely new piercings are wildly infected), but because it looks fucking cool.   
He’s pretty sure that the being out of weed thing is a sign, like that thing that Jay used to say about the shampoo and the conditioner (although coming from Jay, that was depressing and a little concerning). He’s pretty sure that he should get the hell out of this freakshow (while he still can).

After he ‘accidentally’ rips the curtains off his bed and shreds them into little ribbons of fabric (oops), he decides to take another sleep in the great outdoors, figuring that if they can’t find him, he can’t get into trouble (never mind the fact that he could probably fix it with magic, if he actually tried).

Morning comes too soon.

As he sits there, arms tucked behind him, half upright, blowing tendrils of smoke into the dawn air, he watches the clouds. The ones made of smoke, and the ones made of whatever normal clouds are made of (water? Steam?). A bird flies overhead, shooting across the grey sky, closer and closer to him, becoming outlined and real, rather than just being a smudge of brown and white against the early morning haze.

It takes him a second to realise that it’s an owl. Like an actual fucking owl. He’s not exactly well versed in different breeds of bird (on account of him actually having a life), but the crest of one of his primary school uniforms was a barn owl, and the bird in the sky looks just like the one in the little embroidered patch on his jumper did.   
The moment after he realises that it’s an owl (and what is an owl doing flying around at this time, he was certain that they were nocturnal or whatever the fuck), it drops something on his lap.

For a moment, he’s half convinced that it’s shit on him, and wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of the tragedy of Harry Evan’s life, but no.

It’s a letter.   
The envelope is heavy, like there’s more than just paper inside it. The address section is handwritten in a style he’s come to recognise from the quills that these people seem to use (which really isn’t fair. Harry struggles enough when he’s writing with a fucking biro), with a thick wax seal on the back.   
His name is written at the top, in the curly cursive writing.   
He doesn’t bother reading the rest of the address, just rips it open, curiosity overcoming him (it’s not very often that a kid like Harry gets letters after all). 

_To Harry,_   
_This probably seems old fashioned to you, and trust me, we’d be there in person with you if we could._   
_It’s just all so complicated._

_Remus said that you probably wouldn’t want to hear about your parents, and I understand that. You never knew them, and telling you about them would be for our benefit, and not yours, but I just want you to know that I think they would’ve been proud of you. You don’t take shit from anyone, and that’s just how they were._

_There’s a war coming, Harry, and I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but whatever it is, it isn’t enough. Our best friend, Peter, was the one who betrayed your parents to You-Know-Who, and presumably the one who raised him from the dead again (I have no idea how that even works, apparently more than just you can defy death). He framed me, and I spent quite a while in jail because of it, and lucky for me, my name still hasn’t technically been cleared._   
_You-Know-Who, he’s the real deal, he’s a genocidal maniac, and he wants all muggles and muggleborns, and you (you in particular) dead. I’m not saying that to try to scare you, I’m telling you because I don’t know if anyone else has even bothered to let you know what’s going on._

_I don’t know if they’re going to use you as a symbol in this fight, or if they’re going to have you face him, to see if you can defy death twice, but just be careful Harry. Dumbledore is a complicated character, and I will not let you be a pawn in this. Snape was (or is?) one of You-Know-Who’s followers (and was also infatuated with your mother), so he’s bad news all round. Don’t trust them._

_I’m not telling you not to run, because if 16 year old me was faced with all of this, then I would be long gone by now. I’m not telling you to stay and fight, because that’s not what your parents died for. They didn’t die for you so that you could die the same way._   
_I’m telling you this, I’m sending you this because I want you to know, I want you to understand, that there’s no outrunning this war. People are going to die, and I don’t want you to be one of them._

_Dumbledore knows more about this than he’s letting on, and I hear that your whole Parseltongue thing is unsettling him, so you can use that. We also all saw how he reacted to your sofa-arson trick, so you’ve always got that. Demand the truth. You deserve it._   
_I’ve enclosed a mirror. It’s one of a pair. Two-way mirrors that me and your father used to communicate over summer holidays. I have the other one. If you have any questions, or if you just want to talk, I’m in the other side of the glass. (But to be clear, I understand if you don’t. We are practically strangers, and for that I will never stop being sorry)._

_From,_   
_Sirius_

_P.S. If this is Dumbledore reading this, if you’ve intercepted Harry’s post, then I’ve only got one thing to say. Fuck you._

It takes him a long time to read it. Between the slanted writing, and the dancing letters, and the fact that his hands are shaking slightly.   
And the fact that Sirius is the first person to bother to give him the truth. To bother to write it all out, comprehensive and unambiguous. The first person to offer him something, without expecting something in return.   
And the fact that he is a pawn in the this. The fact that he always has been, he’s always known he has been, and for some reason, he’s let himself be blind to it until now.   
And the fact that reading the letter feels like waking up, for the first time in a while.

For a second, he forgets how to breathe.   
His thoughts are racing, and yet simultaneously, his head feels strangely empty.   
He drops the mirror into his pocket.   
He counts to ten.   
He counts to twenty.   
At some point along the way, the paper becomes all crumpled up in his hand, balled up as it forms a fist. His nails leave little indents on his palm.   
It’s not enough.   
He counts to thirty.   
He wants to scream, he wants to shout and cry and spit and yell.   
He wants to run. He needs to stay.

He turns on his heels and walks back to the castle, unaware of the cracks appearing in the ground every time he takes a step.

There’s got to be a station nearby. He’s gone.   
He’s taking the next train to London and he’s not coming back.  
The voice inside him clamouring that he stays, whispering that he will only ever be safe, that he will only ever find himself between these castle walls, is snuffed out, once and for all.  
Harry Evans is going home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!  
> Harry's headed on home, wahoo!


	28. Too good at pretending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aman returns!

Harry remembers the first time he met Aman.   
He was sitting under a ramp at the skatepark, partly to avoid the drizzle, mostly to avoid the group of lads who’d arrived a few minutes earlier. It wasn’t that he was scared of them or anything, he just wasn’t in the mood for the (inevitable) fight that he’d get into (or rather, the one he’d start).

The water was drip-drip-dripping from a crack in the ‘roof’, and he was making each droplet curl upwards and burst into vapour, which mixed with the smoke hanging heavy in the air (hey, a guy’s got to entertain himself somehow). 

He wasn’t feeling sad exactly. He wasn’t moping. He just felt… grey. The kind of grey that’s hard to shake off, dusty and stale and flat. He hadn’t made any friends at his new school yet (but he had made enemies (which sounded stupidly dramatic)), and at the group home, he’d already punched the only other kid in his age right in the nose, for no real reason. He could’ve walked to the next park over, and hung out with his usual crowd, but he just couldn’t be bothered.

The cigarettes weren’t even the type he liked. He hated menthols, the minty feeling of tiny shards of glass settling in his lungs. He never saw the appeal.   
All in all, Harry Evans was having a bad day (a bad day to follow a chain of bad days).

And then there was a figure, looming at the entrance of the ramp, effectively boxing him in. Harry’s skin prickled slightly, the apprehension, the potential danger, leaving him taut and ready.

And then there was a voice, deeper than his own, accented in a way that Harry didn’t quite recognise. “Got a light?”

Harry knew for a fact that the group gathered on the other side of the bridge were smoking right then and there, and had plenty of lighters between them. So clearly the reason for being accosted under the ramp wasn’t as simple as it seemed. It put him on the defensive.   
“Nope.”

And then there was a face. And damn it, Harry Evans always was a sucker for a pretty face. Skin darker than his own, with thick brows, and a bright, warm smile, hooded black eyes glittering with some unknown joke.

The boy’s eyes flickered down to the end of Harry’s smouldering cigarette, and then back up again, meeting his own with a strange, unwavering intensity.   
“How’s that been lit then?”

Harry sighed heavily, and then, because he’s a dick, he said, “Magic.”

“Right. Okay.” The boy rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. It was a nice smile, not mocking at all. “You’re Harry, aren’t you? Harry Evans?”

Nothing good had ever come of strangers knowing his name, so Harry took a drag of his cigarette, and feigned nonchalance. “How do you know that?”

“The guys back there were talking ‘bout you. Apparently you broke their mate’s leg or something.”

Harry couldn’t quite decipher the look in the boy’s eye, so he just laughed sharply. “I didn’t even touch him.” (And besides, his leg was only sprained either way).

“Sure you didn’t. Either way, I wouldn’t have blamed you. Ed’s a dick.”

“Well I didn’t touch him.”

“I believe you.” Said the boy, but his smile suggested that he very much did not believe him.

And then, just to be a prick, Harry said, “I broke Ed’s leg as much as I lit this fag with my mind.” It was a game he played from time to time, skirting around the fact, avoiding outright lying.

The boy was not perturbed. “See, now I’m just assuming that you did both of those things.”

Harry barked out a laugh, stretching his legs out, long and languid. “Assuming that I lit a fag with my fucking mind.”

“Sure, why not.” The boy shrugged, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. Harry’s eyes travelled downwards, taking in the collar of his red coat, the hem of his black shirt, the silver bracelet on his wrist. Taking in how incredibly normal this boy looked, how incredibly normal this boy seemed. How he was stupidly good looking, with a glimmer of something in his eyes.

Harry was impressed, Harry was bemused. Harry made a split second decision and prayed it wasn’t the wrong one. (Impulsive might as well have been his middle name, not that he had one of those).

Suddenly, the end of the boy’s cigarette, clutched between his fingertips, was smouldering. To his credit, he barely even flinched.   
“I knew it.”

“Sure you did.”

“Nah, I did. I’m a psychic with this sort of stuff.”

The boy dropped into a sort of criss cross sitting position, right at the entrance, seemingly unphased by the rain, which was getting steadily heavier. In turn, Harry shuffled so he was slightly closer to the boy, who didn’t seem like he was leaving any time soon.   
“This sort of stuff?”

“Like paranormal stuff and conspiracies and shit.”

Harry gasped mockingly, placing an offended hand on his chest. “You saying I’m paranormal?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet, but I’m looking forward to finding out.”  
Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t supress the slight smile, the slight heat to his cheeks at that.

“Alright then Romeo. Have you got a name?”

“Aman.”  
Harry repeated it back to himself softly, memorising it.

And then he shifted slightly to the side, beckoning Aman inwards, fiddling with his fingers nervously.   
It felt like a beginning. 

  
****

  
Harry leaves Hogwarts with just the clothes on his back. The anger cools slightly during the long train journey, but it’s still there, buzzing beneath the surface, threatening to shatter him at any moment. He jumps the barrier, like he’s done dozens of times before, and when he’s finally at the right tube stop, he runs the five minute walk to Aman’s house, because he needs him. He needs this. He needs to be okay, he needs to feel like himself as soon as possible.

He doesn’t want to break again.

He pounds on the door, a little too hard. They still haven’t fixed their doorbell. He stares at the little note requesting him to ‘please knock’ next to it, in Aman’s neat print. 

The door swings open. It’s familiar, the way it creaks in it’s frame slightly, the hinges rusted just slightly.

There’s so much he wants to say, he doesn’t even know where to start. He settles with a slightly breathless, “Hey!”

He isn’t quite sure what he’s expecting. It’s been weeks since they’ve spoken, and it’s complicated, it’s so complicated. Harry’s been wallowing and seething, and causing problems, lashing out and bringing nothing but hurt hurt hurt into the world. He doesn’t know what Aman’s been doing. Probably something objectively better, something objectively more normal.

But for all of self-loathing, and spiralling, and aching, nothing could’ve prepared him for the blank look he receives. There’s nothing in Aman’s eyes, not pain, or joy, or confusion. He’s looking at Harry like he’s just come to deliver the post. Like he’s a perfect stranger, like they don’t know each other at all.   
It’s different from the time that Harry made the mistake of coming around when Aman’s parents were home, different because then there was panic. There was fear in Aman’s eyes. Fear that Harry would slip up, and leave his parents… wondering. Harry didn’t of course, he’s too good at pretending.

“Can I help you?”  
It’s polite. It’s passive. It’s empty. There’s nothing there, no teasing lilt, no smirk. He wonders if maybe he has the wrong house somehow, if his brain is playing tricks on him (again). Because looks can be deceiving, and this isn’t the Aman he knows (the Aman he loves), this is a stranger wearing his boyfriend’s face.

He can’t speak. He can’t breathe.

Maybe this is a joke, a cruel prank, and Aman’s face is about to split into a smile and he’s going to pull Harry into a bone crushing hug, just like always. But Aman has always been a shite actor, and he isn’t malicious. He wouldn’t do this. Why is he doing this?

Aman’s brow furrows, in an expression that Harry can’t read. Since when is he unable to read Aman?   
“Do I know you from somewhere?”

‘YES.’ Harry thinks. He wants to say it, wants to scream it. ‘Yes of course we know each other.’

But it feels redundant. And he doesn’t think it would cure the blank look in Aman’s eyes. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand how in a few short weeks, someone can just forget a whole part of themselves like that. He wonders if he’s somehow to blame. If somehow when he vanished those men, he took a bit of Aman with him as well.

“Who’s at the door?” a woman, with a thick accent, Aman’s mother, calls from somewhere deep inside the house.

“One of Jamila’s friends I think.” he turns back to face Harry, polite smile still playing on his lips, “Right?”

Harry nods, doing his best to blink back the tears. Doing his best to be the superhero that Aman always thought he was. Doing his best to hold it all together, when there’s no one’s arms to tumble into anymore. When he truly has nothing left.

“Oh well, she’s not home right now, but I’ll tell you called by, what was your name again?”

His name? Aman doesn’t even know his fucking name.   
“Harry.”

“Well, see you around, Harry.”

The door closes, and Harry is alone, more alone than he’s ever been in his life. With a head almost as heavy as his heart, he turns to walk down the street, feeling every bit the stranger he has become. He doesn’t even recognise himself anymore.

It feels like an ending. 

* * *

  
Aman’s passive smile fades as he closes the door.   
The man, or boy, was strangely familiar, a friend of a friend perhaps, someone he’s seen in the corridors at school. But there was something about him that made Aman’s stomach twist up in knots, something about that strange, pained look in his eyes.  
He shakes it off, returning to the kitchen to keep his eye on the tea, which is bubbling on the cooker, ignoring that aching feeling inside that something is missing, like there’s something he’s not remembering right. But then again, if it was anything important, he wouldn’t have forgotten in the first place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … well Aman kinda returns… 
> 
> Let me know what you think! (This was one of my favourite chapters to write so far! Sorry Harry)
> 
> Not sure when the next update will be because things are really crazy atm, but stay safe out there yall


	29. There aren't any stars

Harry finds himself back under that skate ramp, breathless and broken and so utterly confused that it hurts. It’s taking all of the effort, all of the energy he has left to keep from completely breaking down. He’s swallowing down that lump in his throat and pretending to be brave, pretending that his eyes aren’t stinging and his head isn’t aching and he doesn’t feel sick to his stomach.

It isn’t working.

He tries counting himself out of it. He loses track before he even reaches five.

And that same feeling as before, that same feeling as always is bubbling up. That jagged anger, sharp and uncontrollable, cloying to get to the surface. He feels like he’s about to implode, he feels like he’s about to explode. There’s all this anger and all this pain, and he doesn’t know where to put it. He doesn’t know where it’s supposed to go. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know where Aman, his Aman, is gone. He doesn’t know where he himself has gone. He doesn’t know when he stopped being a person and started being this broken angry husk of something better left forgotten. He doesn’t want to get up. Part of him never wants to get up again. He feels oddly weightless, like he could just float away, and never come back down again. He doesn’t want to get high, he doesn’t want to get drunk, he doesn’t even want to see any of his friends. He just wants Aman. He just wants some proof that he’s still the same person, underneath all of this magical wizarding bullshit. He just wants to be himself again. And he wishes that his identity, his very sense of self, wasn’t so tangled up in Aman being there. He wishes he could be his own person. He wishes he wasn’t on his own.

“Evans, is that you?”   
The voice is slightly slurred, but still instantly recognisable. Harry has no idea how anyone even found him here, when he’s tucked out of sight under the ramp, with his head between his knees, curled up over and in on himself.

“Oh, hi Chaz.”

“What, not happy to see me?”   
Harry angles his head slightly to get a better look at Chaz, removing it from his lap in the process. Chaz looks the same as always, still ridiculously tall, with long gangly limbs that he doesn’t really know what to do with, still with the same slightly lopsided blonde bowl cut on his head, with an unlit cigarette pinched between his teeth. He’s a strange one, is Chaz. (For example, he’s the only person Harry has ever seen smoking an actual cigar (and promptly throwing up because he did it all in one sitting)).

“Nah, just had a bad day, mate.”

Chaz stoops over to peer into the ramp. It’s so much like Aman, and so little like Aman that it leaves Harry reeling. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a bit complicated.” (Understatement).

“Ah, don’t try explaining that sorta thing to me then, it’ll go right over my head.” Chaz grins at him blearily, and his cigarette falls out from between his teeth, and onto the ground. Harry watches in fascination and horror and Chaz scoops it back up, wiping the mud off it with his sleeve, and returning it to his mouth. (Chaz definitely used to be the kid who licked rocks for fun). “Where you staying now? I haven’t seen you around in ages.”

“I—” Harry realises suddenly that he’s not staying anywhere. There’s no way he’s going back to that stupid fucking castle, and there’s also no way he’s about to go and throw himself on the mercy of the foster care system again. He doesn’t have anyone, or anywhere. Not anymore.

Apparently his silence is more telling that he realised. “You have got somewhere to stay, right?” Chaz looks unnecessarily concerned. “One of my mates got kicked out and he had to sleep on the street and he got pneumonia.”  
Harry doesn’t doubt that that story is made up. Chaz lies like it’s his job (not that he has one of those, since he got fired from the Nandos three blocks over for trying to fry his sleeve in the deep fat fryer (claiming that he just ‘wanted to see if it tasted nice’).

“I’m alright man, I’ll work something out.”

“You sure? You can always sleep on my sofa. I think it’s a pullout but me and Mum can’t work out how to do it.”  
The offer, genuine and unselfish is so Chaz that Harry nearly starts crying all over again. Harry knows about Chaz (everyone does), but he doesn’t know Chaz. This is the third or fourth time that they’ve even spoken to each other, Harry’s been gone for more than a month, they’re almost strangers, and yet Chaz is offering him somewhere to stay, out of the cold, and asking nothing in return. His eyes are slightly lidded, and shockingly red, but Harry reckons that even if he wasn’t off his head high right now, he’d still be doing this.

“It’s alright mate, thanks for offering though.”

Chaz fiddles with something in his pocket for a moment, then pulls out a little baggie of white powder, that Harry is halfway convinced is fucking meth or something. The stories he hears about Chaz, he wouldn’t be surprised.   
“Want some of this?”

“Nah mate, keep it for yourself.”

“Alright Evans, let me know if you need something though yeah? My doors always open, and the sofa’s always there for a sound guy like you.”

“Thanks Chaz.”  
With a nod and a smile, Chaz is gone, and Harry is alone again.

The worst part about all of it is that Harry knew better. He knew all along that him and Aman were never going to be a forever thing. More than that, he knew that he’d just be a footnote in Aman’s life, a blip in his journey, a secret shame that he never spoke of once it was over. And that hurt, knowing that Aman meant more to Harry than Harry meant to Aman. Harry doesn’t dislike religion, not exactly. He doesn’t hate Aman’s religion, because he’s not a fucking bigot, but it doesn’t sit well with him that Aman’s religion hates Aman, that Aman’s religion hates him. It leaves him feeling twisted up and raw inside when he thinks about what would happen to Aman if his parents knew, if his family knew. And now, for whatever reason, they don’t have to.

For whatever reason, his Aman is gone, and he doesn’t know how to get him back, doesn’t know how to make things go back to the way that they were.   
Doesn’t know if Aman would even really want him to.

He’s not sure what it is, the weariness in his bones, or how utterly emotionally drained he suddenly feels, but somehow, all curled up below the skate ramp, he dozes off, neck crooked against the back wall, jacket pulled up around his head. Somewhere along the way, Harry Evans mastered the art of sleeping sitting up, of sleeping anywhere and anytime, just to get a few hours in. Sleeping is better than thinking at the best of times, and now more than ever, he just doesn’t want to face this.

When he wakes, it’s dark. There aren’t any stars.   
And for the first time in a long time, Harry doesn’t have anywhere to go.   
It unsettles him more than he thought it might, the feeling of being utterly and terrifyingly untethered. There’s nowhere to run to (but there are plenty of places to run from).

After a long few minutes, Harry motivates himself enough to clamber to his feet, shuffling out into the night. It’s cold, the kind of cold where your breath leaves an impression in the air, so he shoves his hands into his pockets, unwilling to get frostbite on top of the rest of this bullshit. In his pockets he can feel his filters, and his rizzlas, and his baccy as usual. He can feel a crumpled receipt and a half empty pack of gum. But he can also feel something heavy, something smooth and flat.

The mirror.

He’s not sure what possesses him to do what he does next. He’ll blame it on sleep deprivation if anyone asks. He lifts the mirror upwards, so his face is framed in it.   
He coughs, awkwardly, and then says “Hello?” tentative and unsure.

His reflection ripples, and fades away, replaced by a face, which isn’t fully unfamiliar. It’s like a warped version of the face of the man he saw in the fucked up version of London. The features are different, but they pair together much better. This man is a lot better looking than he was, even with bleary eyes, and a slightly slack jaw. Clearly he’s just been sleeping. Harry only feels a little bad about waking him.   
“Harry! Are you alright?”

It takes the man asking that for Harry to realise that he doesn’t know what he wants, he doesn’t know what he expects this man, who despite his relative kindness is a stranger, to do. He just doesn’t want to be alone with the pain he’s feeling right now, and this something is better than nothing.

“Harry, where are you?”

“London.”

Sirius stares at him, concern hooding his handsome eyes. Now that Harry looks at him closer, he can see the deep set wrinkles, lines cutting strange patterns across Sirius’ otherwise handsome face. It’s strange, how someone can look so young, and so worn down at the same time.   
“Where abouts? We can come and find you.”

And Harry could say no. He could tell Sirius to piss right off with his pity and his concern and that patronisingly gentle look in his eyes. But he’s tired. And in his possible second lapse of judgement, he rattles off the vague address of the skatepark, ignoring that little voice inside which tells him to trust no one.

He’s tired. He doesn’t want to be alone. He wants someone to tell him everything will be okay. He wants it to be true.

He has a feeling that nothing is going to be okay ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the delayed update, but to be fair I have an excuse, and that is called I have corona virus and can no longer stay awake for more than 4 consecutive hours at a time. I also can't taste or smell anything at the moment, so life is good.   
> Hope everyone out there is staying safe and all that... and let me tell you... this virus is really not fun, I actually feel like death 
> 
> Anyways back to the story! Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, it's a little interlude and then we're gonna get back to business! For now I can feel 15-20 more chapters brewing, I have them mapped out but I haven't written any yet (on account of now having work to do as well) but I'm on it!


	30. Never hurt for this long

Sirius still has nightmares. Of course he does. He doesn’t wake screaming or crying or sweating. He wakes with dread filling his body, in his bones, and his lungs, and prickling under his skin. Dread for what has been, and dread for what is yet to come. It sometimes takes hours to fully dissipate, and it leaves him reeling, staring blankly at the walls, with tears prickling in his eyes and what feels like fire prickling on his skin.

This time is no different. He wakes in darkness, and for a moment he’s back there, on the floor of that cell, utterly and painfully alone, feeling as if he’s betrayed everyone, including himself. But then he hears a voice. Harry’s voice.

He likes to think that he would’ve known it anywhere, even if it wasn’t so distinctive.   
He snatches the mirror off his bedside table, almost instinctively. And Harry is there, barely visible in the darkness, his eyes heavy with some emotion Sirius can’t begin to unpick. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Harry looks broken.   
And then he has an address, or rather a location, and Remus is on his feet, throwing Sirius a jacket to wear, and then they’re bundling out of the front door, and Sirius doesn’t feel dread at all.

Instead he feels hope. 

Harry doesn’t even look at them when they arrive. He’s slumped against a wall, head drooping between his knees. He looks like he’s just crumpled there, like he’s a puppet, and someone’s cut his strings. Sirius can’t see his face, or really any of his body, because of the big jacket that he’s wearing. He can’t tell if he’s upset, or hurt, or anything. He can barely even see him breathing.

“Harry?”

Sirius says it softly, not stepping closer than he needs to. He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen.   
Harry doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem to register that they’re there.   
He tries again. He’ll try all night if he has to.

“Harry? Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Harry mumbles something incoherent.

“What was that?”

“My hands bleeding.”  
Harry’s voice is almost hollow.

“Can I see?”

Harry lifts his head, not looking Sirius in the eyes, but extending both hands into the yellowy light, cast by the lamp on the other side of the street.   
He wasn’t lying, his hands are bleeding, more than a little bit.   
His knuckles are shredded, split and scrapped in a way that suggests he’s been hitting something, or someone, quite hard. And as he turns his palms upwards, Sirius can see a deep cut, right across the centre of one, in almost a perfect straight line. Blood is still dripping from it, and Harry flexes it slightly, watching the droplets bead and pool with a far off look in his eyes.

Sirius doesn’t ask how they happened. He almost doesn’t want to know.

“I’ve never bled like this before.”  
Says Harry, his voice so soft and feathery that Sirius almost misses it.   
“It usually stops by now. I’m never hurt for this long.”

“Do you want me to—”

“No.” Harry snarls his reply before Sirius is even finished speaking. “No. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m never hurt for long. I’ll just go to sleep, and I won’t be hurting anymore in the morning.”

“And where are you planning on sleeping?” Sirius makes sure to ask it softly, without even a tinge of anything that could be conceived as mocking, or condescension.

“Why do you care?”

Harry looks Sirius in the face this time, and all Sirius can see is how utterly shattered he looks. His usually bright eyes are dull and flat, red rimmed, with deep bags cutting across his cheeks. Even his tone, which would usually be cutting and angry, hardly even changes from monotone. Sirius wants to cry, just looking at him. Just looking at the state that James and Lily’s boy is in.   
“I care, Harry. You can stay with us, if you’d like. We’ve got plenty of spare rooms.”

Remus bristles slightly behind him, probably preparing for some comment about prepositioning teenage boys on street corners and inviting them home, but Harry just nods, slowly, slightly.   
“Okay.”

And if that isn’t a testament to how much whatever’s happened to him has affected him, Sirius doesn’t know what is.

Harry sways on his feet slightly, but doesn’t speak again. When they get inside, he doesn’t look around, he doesn’t ask any questions, which Sirius is grateful for (explaining his family, with their generational wealth and bigotry isn’t his favourite thing to do). Sirius guides him towards one of the guest rooms, and Harry just shrugs his jacket off, dropping it to the ground, and faces the opposite wall, obviously wanting to be alone.

“Do you need anything, for your hands?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink at all?”

Harry shakes his head.

“The bathroom’s just through that door, okay?”

Harry nods his head.

“I’ll leave you be now.”

Harry doesn’t move.

But as Sirius is stepping out of the door, he hears it. Soft and broken as anything Harry has said today. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay Harry.”

Sirius doesn’t hear what Harry says next, mostly because he mumbles it into the back of his split knuckles, which still haven’t healed yet.   
“Is it?”

***

Harry’s exhausted to the extent of his guard being well and truly down.   
He’s making stupid mistakes. He doesn’t know where he is. He wasn’t paying attention to the way to the front door. He drops his jacket on the ground. He doesn’t check the room, doesn’t orient himself in the space at all. He doesn’t look for potential exits, for potential escapes. He just curls up, as tight and as small as he can, scrunching his body up until he barely even feels real anymore. It takes all of his waning focus to keep the tears inside. He’s trying so hard to not snap in two that his head throbs. He might have fallen asleep at some point in the night. It’s hard to tell the difference. He doesn’t dream either way. There’s no escape from this.

***

Sirius is nervous when he goes to knock on Harry’s door in the morning.

There’s a number of things that Harry could be right now, and ‘okay’ seems pretty far down the list.

Sirius isn’t great at dealing with people when they’re actively not okay. He cuts himself some slack for it. Twelve years with no real human interaction breaks something in you quite profusely, and it’s not as if he can just pretend to be the person he was anymore (not that that person was much better at dealing with other people’s feelings).   
But Harry needs him, and James and Lily trusted him, and Remus believes he can do this. And that’s enough, at least for now.

The door cracks open on the third knock. “Harry?”

“Yes.”  
Harry’s voice is clipped, and thick with sleep, or with feeling. Sirius has always believed in the power of tone of voice, but he’s never been particularly good at deciphering what different tones mean.

He wavers before he can ask a stupid question like, “Are you alright?”, because the answer is plain to see on Harry’s face, and in the fact that he doesn’t look significantly better than he did yesterday. In fact, the bags under his eyes might even be bigger today.

Sirius goes for the safe, albeit slightly emotionally stunted option of question. “Would you like something to eat?”

Harry fixes him with this look, long and hard, like he’s trying to puzzle him, and the situation as a whole, out. “What do you have?”

For some reason, that simple and expected response makes Sirius panic slightly, and he forgets every breakfast item that’s ever existed. His brain decides that: “Food.” Is an appropriate response.

Harry’s expression shifts, from one of unfocused pain, to one of slightly amused disbelief. “Yes. Clearly. What food do you have?”

“Pretty much anything. Remus can get it if we don’t have it.”

“Well in that case, I want a Maccies.”

“You want what?”

For some reason, Sirius’ confusion brings a glint to Harry’s eyes. “Oh my God. You guys don’t even have fucking McDonalds. No wonder you look so miserable all the fucking time.”

Sirius folds his arms across his chest, in a mockery of a stroppy child. “I do not.”

“You do too.”

And because Harry is smirking slightly, and speaking in something closer to his usual mocking drawl, Sirius decides to poke the beast. “Speak for yourself, you aren’t exactly the poster boy of sunshine and rainbows.”

“Yeah. Well I’ve got a reason to be fucking upset.”

And it’s on the knife’s edge. Sirius reckons that Harry could go either way at this point. Either they get to the bottom of what happened, or something gets blown up. Sirius decides to hold his ground.   
“And I don’t?”

“Go on then.” Harry waggles his eyebrows slightly, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

And for some reason, Sirius decides to just blurt it out. “I was falsely imprisoned for twelve years in the equivalent of hell on earth for a crime I didn’t commit, while everyone in the outside world thought I was a traitor who murdered my best friends.”

To his credit, Harry barely even flinches. He doesn’t look disgusted, or nervous, or take a half step back. In fact, he almost looks sad. A different kind of sad, not the all-consuming and shattering sadness of yesterday, more a soft sadness, almost tinged with pity. “What, is there no Wizard justice system?”

“Not one that works.”

“Fuck man. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, I’m out now, and that’s what matters.” It’s not true in the slightest. It doesn’t sound true, even to Sirius’ own ears, but Harry pretends not to notice. Sirius pushes onward. “But go on, what’s got you so down in the dumps?”

Something in Harry shifts, his jaw tightens marginally. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Not even after I’ve bared my soul?” Sirius keeps his tone light, non-intrusive, even though he really just wants to know. He just wants to help.

“ _Especially_ not after that. I don’t associate with criminals.”

Sirius gasps, mock offended. “Fuck right off.”

Harry smiles, and even though it doesn’t look fully real, Sirius counts it as a win.

“Let’s see about getting you some ‘McDonalds’ then.”

“My hero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Almost better from covid! Eating mac and cheese rn so life is good!
> 
> Hope you guys like this chapter.... things are a moving and a shaking


	31. Not a fucking charity case

“Harry, it’s fine that you don’t want to talk about what happened, but you at least need to have a plan of what you want to happen next.”

Harry pouts like a child, half hiding his face behind the brown McDonalds bag, as if that will make the problem go away. Not that Harry’s presence ever has been or ever will be a problem. No, the issue is the situation as a whole, Harry’s pain and anger, and the matter of whatever happened to him which lead to him being on that London street corner, hundreds of miles away from where they left him. From where Remus wished that they hadn’t left him. In fact, if Remus had had his own way, Harry probably wouldn’t have even been to Hogwarts in the first place. The whole thing seemed high risk and low reward, more like posturing and masquerading than actually doing anything for the war effort, or for Harry himself.

“Why? Can’t I just go with the flow?”

As if to emphasize his point, Harry shoves another handful of fries into his mouth, chewing deliberately loudly, smacking his lips. The way he eats gives James a run for his money in terms of how obnoxious it is, but they’re three cheeseburgers and a share-box of chicken nuggets in, so it’s barely even effecting (repulsing) Remus anymore.

He calls Harry’s bluff. “What are you talking about?”

“I reckon I’ll just see where life takes me next.”

“Is that your honest and genuine action plan?”

Sirius shoots him one of those looks. One of those ‘lay off them’ looks. Remus usually pays attention to Sirius when he does that, not only because he’s often right, but also because Sirius hates being ignored more than anything (twelve years of near solitude didn’t really help on that front). But in this case, it doesn’t make any sense, Harry’s ‘plan to just not have a plan’ thing isn’t going to work with the whole ‘impending genocide and doom’ thing that’s happening simultaneously. It also isn’t going to work with the reality of the fact that he’s technically homeless, unqualified and unemployed.

“Yep. And I’m standing by it.”

And Remus really shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t poke this sleeping dragon, because Harry is upset, hell, Harry is a lot more than just upset. And not only that, but he clearly already doesn’t have an overflowing amount of fondness for Remus, but he can’t just pretend that just ‘going with the flow’ is a reasonable thing to be doing right now.

So he says it softly, gently, with no malice or ill intent.   
“But in the long term Harry, what about the basics. Where are you planning to live? What are you going to wear? What are you planning on eating?”

Harry blinks slowly, staring at Remus like he has three heads.

Sirius interjects, with a scowl in Remus’ direction, “You can stay here for as long as you need.”

“I’m not a fucking charity case.” Harry seems to say it automatically, there’s barely any force behind the words.

Remus shakes his head empathetically, “No you’re not, but we’re not having you die on the streets when there’s plenty of room here.”

Sirius makes a soft sound of agreement. He’s being quieter than usual, which is slightly unnerving, but Remus figures that he should focus on the matter at hand. There’s plenty of time to check on Sirius later.

“Why do you even care?”

And it’s impossible for Remus to express why he cares in a way that’s simple, in a way that makes sense to anyone, least of all Harry. It’s impossible for him to articulate the years of loving, and mourning and longing. It’s impossible to express all of the hurt and the hope and the pain. The only way that Remus can respond to that question is to half mumble. “We were friends of your parents.”

Harry presses his fingers to his forehead as if Remus is getting on his last nerve. “God, I really don’t fucking care.” The words still sting, even though Remus knows that Harry doesn’t fully mean them. It feels like blasphemy somehow, going against the age old rule of never speaking ill of the dead. Harry continues, “But seeing as they’re getting me somewhere to stay, I’ll let it slide. That’s more than they’ve ever done for me before.”

Sirius doesn’t seem to be able to help himself. “You are aware that they died. They were murdered.”

“Yes.”

Remus has to pause for a beat, has to stare at the blank look in Harry’s eyes, and reconcile yet again that Harry’s connection to, his relationship with, his parents is all but non existent. Remus wonders if it was always that way, or if it’s just another thing that Harry’s had to teach himself to do, over the years, to survive. He remembers Harry’s voice, raw with emotion, through the door back at the castle, as he asked what his parents were called, and Remus’ heart clenches.

“So”, Harry continues breezily, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, “I’m staying here until I find something more permanent. I’m not going back to that fucking castle.”

“What about your stuff?”  
Remus finds that question strange. Ever since Sirius came back (it’s easier to think of it that way, rather than actually face up to what happened), he’s not been the materialistic sort.

“He can borrow clothes, Sirius, and we can buy him whatever else he needs.”

Harry suddenly looks worried, brow furrowed as he chews on his lip. “No, there’s something I need to go back and get.”

Harry’s worry rubs off on Remus slightly. “Are you sure? I don’t know exactly what’s happened, but I do know that Dumbledore is unlikely to let you go twice.”

“Yes I’m fucking sure.”

“What’s so important?”

“Stop asking stupid fucking questions. I may be a destitute orphan, but I fucking have possessions, okay? I’m going back for the snake or some shit. Whatever.”

“Alright. Okay. We can go back.”

“But I’m not staying. I can’t stay in that freakshow any longer. I mean it.”

* * *

  
Harry doesn’t need-need to go back. He could live without it. He could just stay in this old fashioned, dark house, which doesn’t seem to be to either Sirius or Remus’ taste (not that he knows anything about them, other than the snap second judgments he’s long since made). He could just stay in this house and forget. Pretend everything is okay, and slowly transition back to reality. Slowly transition back to being a person again, rather than to sleepwalking through life, and feeling like he’s drowning every second of every day (even though Aman- or the lack of Aman- is making him feel like his lungs have already filled with water, like he’s already blue and bruised and water bloated, like he’s going to wash up on some shore, already dead).

The lack of Aman feels like falling, feels like the air has been ripped from his lungs and he’s just waiting for the impact. He feels dizzy whenever he remembers. He feels that dark and cloying shadow of dread, of pain and guilt and loss. So much loss. But at the same time as all of that, the feeling of Aman being whatever Aman is, is indescribable. He can’t put words to the feeling. He doesn’t even quite know how to compute it. He doesn’t think he’s brave enough, or strong enough, or stable enough, to process everything churning up inside his chest.

So he doesn’t.

He thinks instead about his skateboard, leaning up against the cold stone of the castle wall. He thinks about his jumpers, strewn across the chair in the corner of the room. He thinks of his battered backpack, still half packed, at the foot of the bed, just in case. He thinks of the taped box, tucked under the mattress, carboard buckled slightly with weight and age, he instantly regrets thinking about that last thing.

There’s only so much loss that one person can take.

He’s always had a complicated relationship with having (or not having for the most part) possessions. It’s still difficult to define his precise dependence on material objects, probably because he struggles with depending on anything at all. But he thinks of his things, mostly of the box, and the few personal items in his bag. He thinks of his jumpers, one of which was clearly knitted by hand, with a label carefully stitched inside, which is so faded that he can pretend it used to say ‘Harry Evans’. So faded that he can pretend that someone cared enough about him to make it for him. He thinks about the people in his life. The way they came. The way they left. He thinks about a stupid polaroid of him and Aman, with their faces pressed together, cheek to cheek, in the top pocket of his bag. And he aches. And he has to go back, consequences be dammed. 

Remus is saying something to Sirius in a low voice, though not so low that Harry couldn’t pick up on what was being said if he really tried.

He doesn’t bother trying. He really doesn’t care. As long as he gets his shit back, and never has to see that stupid fucking castle again, he couldn’t care less.

“Are you ready to go Harry? Do you have your wand?”

He elects to ignore the latter part of that question. Not only does he very much not have his wand, he also doesn’t have any idea where it is. “What, we’re going right fucking now?”

“The sooner we get in and out, the more likely we are to get away with it.”

Harry shrugs at what seems like decent logic.

“Do you have the cloak?” Sirius asks, like Harry is supposed to know what the fuck that means.

“The what?”

“The invisibility cloak. It belonged to your father. Dumbledore said he’d given it to you.”

“Well he fucking didn’t.” Harry isn’t even all that surprised. Theft and-or lying seems pretty in character for old Dumbledoo.

“Remus.” Sirius’ voice is low and rough. Harry can see the sudden tension in his jaw, the furrow in his brow, a long, deep crevice. “Remus, he’s—”

“I know.” Remus’ response is little more than a growl.

“James’ cloak. That’s not fair. That’s not right.”

“We’ll put it right.” There’s a flash of something feral, something uncontrolled and untamed in Remus’ eye. It’s gone as quickly as it arrived, but Harry sees it. Harry feels it.

And maybe the rage passes onto him a little, because even though he doesn’t fully understand, what he has grasped is that Dumbledoo has taken something, something that should’ve belonged to him. And for someone who doesn’t own very many things, that’s a bit of a sore point.

(And if he focuses on being angry about some ‘cloak’ or whatever the fuck, then that will feel the void inside that Aman left behind).

“Come on then!” says Harry, making his voice as casually cheery as possible, pitching it upwards.

Remus and Sirius both whip their heads in his direction, eyeing him with identical strange, almost pained looks.

“I think it’s about time we get my stuff, and then go and assault a pensioner.”

“You know Harry", says Sirius with a small smirk, "I think you might be right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yall! Sorry for the delayed update. I have so much work to do and as a fun after effect of COVID I am sleeping for most of the day! Wahoo!
> 
> Next chapter (not written yet but planned) Draco and Dumbledore will both make an appearance I believe
> 
> Thanks to people for sticking with this story! Ta Ta


	32. He's grey instead

Just before they’re about to apperate (well, just before Remus is about to apperate, and Sirius and Harry are about to tag along, because Sirius doesn’t have nearly enough energy for it, even this early on in the day), Harry taps Sirius on the shoulder, balancing just slightly on the tips of his toes to do so. It gives Sirius this burning, almost aching, sense of nostalgia, as he remembers James replicating the exact same gesture to get his attention.

“Jesus, I know I’m going to fucking regret asking this, but what did you mean in the letter.”

“Which part?”

“The part about Dumble-whatever-the-fuck knowing more than he lets on.”

Sirius supresses his wince at the mere mention of Dumbledore’s ‘name’. He’s long since been angry at the man, but in the last few weeks, he’s confirmed that there’s a reason for Sirius’ hostility. He tries to play it cool, uncaring of how well he plays it off. “Why will you regret asking that?”

“Because I don’t care. I don’t fucking care about any of it. But that man gives me the fucking creeps. What does he know?”  
Harry runs a hand through his hair, in a very James like gesture. Sirius curses himself for even thinking it. Harry isn’t James and James isn’t Harry. This isn’t his best friend back to life. This is a complicated, damaged teenager, who’s struggling in his own right, separate from Sirius’ grief and inability to let go.

“I mean, clearly I don’t know everything that goes on in his head.”  
Sirius bets that he’d be repulsed if he knew even a little bit of what Dumbledore was thinking at any given time.

“I bet he’s into some really fucked up shit.”

Sirius can only shrug.  
Telling Harry anything when he’s this fragile, this clearly close to splintering, is a risk. But then again, Sirius has never been the kind to truly think things through.  
“I do know something about a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?” Harry wrinkles his nose, like the words themselves have offended him. “What the fuck even is that?”

“A prophecy is like a premonition, a prediction about the future.” Remus supplies, with that helpful lilt to his voice. Sirius doesn’t suppose that it will help Harry a great deal.

He’s proven right when Harry rolls his eyes, “Yes I fucking know that much, I’m not stupid.”

Remus stands his ground, raising his chin, just marginally, the way he used to do at school, when a fight was brewing. He was never the biggest lad, but the way he tilted his chin, baring those scars on his neck and his cheeks, that glint of something feral in his eye? He could shake anyone’s confidence.  
“I never said you were. I was just answering your question.”

Surprisingly, Harry shrugs it off, turning back to Sirius, effectively blocking Remus out. “Well how do you know about it, and why has no one fucking bothered mentioning it yet?”

“It’s complicated one. I don’t know what it is, I don’t even know if it’s true, but the reason that Voldemort targeted you was apparently because of this prophecy.” Remus told him that, as Remus has to tell him most things these days.

Harry huffs out a heavy breath, “Well that’s about as fucking ridiculous as I should’ve expected.”

“I am really sorry that this has happened to you, Harry.” Remus says softly, lowering his eyes fractionally. Sirius can tell that he’s already sorry for his pseudo display of dominance earlier, and this is Remus’ way to try and win Harry back. He can also tell, based on his limited interactions with Harry, that the ‘I’m sorry’ approach, tends to have little impact.

“Why are you sorry?” Harry bristles, “It wasn’t your fucking fault.”

“I meant it empathetically.”

“Well save your fucking empathy for someone who gives a shit.” Harry’s riled up now, taut and tense, with that dark, dark look in his eyes. “I’ve got bigger problems going on.”

And Sirius just can’t help himself from poking. “Such as?”

“Such as fucking nothing. Mind your own business.”

And it’s a combination of the look in Harry’s eyes, and the static in the air, buzzing so loud that Sirius can feel it on his skin, but they apperate, unwilling to push any further.  
Sirius wonders if that visceral look is because Harry’s never really spoken about his problems, never really addressed his feelings, or whether he’s been pushed too far before, and he already knows what it’s like to brim over in a situation where he really shouldn’t.

* * *

  
  
Harry arrives at Hogwarts, annoyed.  
Well not quite annoyed.  
Everything feels dull all of a sudden, every emotion grey and unfulfilled.  
He feels like he could be annoyed, like he should be annoyed.  
And he’s grey instead.  
He’s washed out and muted, like when he’s not wearing his glasses, and everything is blurry and incoherent.

He kicks at the grass to distract himself, scuffing it beneath his feet.  
He can’t see the castle from wherever they’ve arrived, but even knowing that he’s near that freakshow makes him antsy.  
He clenches his shaking fingers, trying his best to curb his urge for a fag, or something stronger. He’s not some fucking nitty who needs nicotine all hours of the day (well he does, but he’s not about to admit it). He doesn’t even want the nicotine rush. He wants the burn in the back of his throat when he sucks the cigarette right down to the filter. He wants to let it smoulder until it singes his fingers. He wants to hurt, he wants to feel. He wonders if the two might be one and the same.

He rubs his face, ignoring the smell of fags clinging to his fingers.  
He pinches his wrist, hard, indenting it with his bitten fingernails. It’s a bad habit, Aman always told him so. Fucking Aman.  
He can feel Remus and Sirius staring him.  
He is not about to have some sort of psychotic fucking break.  
He is not about to have a melt down.  
He’s Harry fucking Evans, and he might not have it together, but he refuses to fully splinter apart.

He’s hot. Why is it so fucking hot here?  
He doesn’t notice the smoke slowly spiralling up from his hands, doesn’t notice the sheen of sweat slowly appearing on Remus and Sirius’ brows as the air becomes molten, doesn’t notice the slightly panicked looks that they exchange.  
He’s too fucking hot here, even facing the winter sky.

He shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, letting it half flop around his waist.  
He starts to walk in a random direction, towards a collection of trees, thick and slightly menacing (well, as much as trees can be fucking menacing).  
He’s not sure if they’re following.  
He finds that he doesn’t even care.

* * *

  
  
Draco wonders when it all stopped making sense.  
As long as he could remember, it was always a fact, that Purebloods are better than Muggleborns, better than _Mudbloods_. It was always just a statement, unequivocally correct. The sky was blue, the grass was green, he would be sorted into Slytherin when the time came, Purebloods are just superior. He only started to question it when he got to Hogwarts. When he met Muggleborns, when he knew them, for the first time in his life.  
Why, if Purebloods are just better, was that mudblood Granger at the top of every class?  
Why was she smarter and more driven and just better than him in every way?  
Why were Purebloods like Crabbe and Goyle, slow and dense, and so one dimensional that it ached to be around them?  
Why was it no longer black and white? Why did it no longer make sense?  
At first he thought that it might just have been her, some strange exception to the rule. But then he realised that if it’s a fact, there can’t be exceptions. That’s not how it works. Either it’s true, or it’s false. And Draco realised, with a heaviness in his chest, that it was all false.

The worst thing about it all is that he knew. When he got the mark on his arm, when he let the darkness have him, he knew better.  
He wasn’t some ignorant, arrogant, close minded fool.  
He knew that Purebloods and Muggleborns are all the same, he knew that he’d been lied to his whole life. That being a Pureblood didn’t make him better than anyone else (and in fact it almost made him worse). But he did it anyway.  
Because that’s exactly the kind of coward that Draco Malfoy is.  
And he wishes that was past tense.  
Wishes he’d done something in the meantime to be braver, to be bolder, to be more than Draco Malfoy.  
But he hasn’t.  
And he probably never will.

His father always knew he was weak. Always knew that he was undeserving. He’d spit those harsh words with thinly veiled contempt, and Draco would pretend to understand why he wasn’t enough, why everything was so knotted up and tangled. Why his father said the things he said, and did the things he did, and hurt the people that he hurt.  
Why he hurt Draco most of all.

Draco doesn’t hurt himself, not really. Not in the traditional sense.  
But it’s all just so knotted and complicated, and tangled up.  
And it’s hurting to be who he is, and it’s hurting to pretend to be who he’s not.  
And the only person who knows anything real about him hates him.  
And the only person who could possibly understand him hates him.  
And the only person who could possibly help him hates him.  
And the only person who might just care enough to see it all hates him and has gone.  
Harry’s gone.  
The room across from Draco is empty, and it seems to mark something like an ending in his life. Something like a point of no return.  
There’s a twisted snake on his arm, and a snake twisting across the floor of their common area.  
And Harry Evans is gone, and Draco wouldn’t blame him if he never came back.

(Okay, maybe he would, maybe just a little).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy!!!
> 
> Bitches be hurting here
> 
> Lockdown 2.0 here!  
> Maybe might have some time for writing now!!
> 
> Hope you like this chapter!
> 
> (Harry and Draco reunion next??)


	33. Consider what could have been

Sirius and Remus decide to keep lookout. Harry shrugs, because the only way if affects him is that it means they won’t be fucking pestering him the whole time, and besides, he can hold his own if it comes to it (he really fucking hopes it comes to it).

He doesn’t miss the way they bow their heads together, foreheads almost brushing against one another, whispering rapidly. He wonders if they’re talking about him, and Aman’s voice echoes in his head, calling him a narcist, but he quiets it with the reminder that since he’s got to this fucking freakshow, pretty much everything DOES seem to be about him. And he wouldn’t usually mind that sort of thing, because being in the spotlight just tends to provide him with even more opportunities to be a total prick, but today he feels like he’s about to shatter if one more person says his name, or looks him directly in the eyes, as if they really see him. He needs a smoke. He needs a drink. He needs a distraction. He needs to get a fucking grip.

He shakes it off, pushing the door to his room open purposefully, figuring that if anyone’s waiting to ambush him or whatever the fuck, he might as well own it.

There isn’t.

The room is empty, and eerily quiet, the coals burnt down to embers in the fireplace. Harry’s never stayed in somewhere with a fireplace before. He’d never actually seen one in real life before he came to this place. It seems impractical really, putting an open flame inside your house, when a perfectly good invention called central heating exists.

Harry doesn’t feel the cold anyway. It’s one of those other strange things about him. Other people tell him all the time that he’s cold to the touch, that his fingertips are like ice. He used to shove his hands up Aman’s shirt and press his open palm against Aman’s stomach, just to fuck with him sometimes. Just so that Aman would shove him with that playful smile, and make a remark about him being a magic zombie, or a vampire, or whatever other creature took his fancy. Harry’s always cold, but he can’t remember the last time he felt it. Now the memory of cold feels particularly far away. Now he feels like he’s in one of those fancy fucking steam rooms that he’s forgotten the name of, or like he’s in some humid country like India or some shit. He wonders if he would’ve gone to India if his parents were alive. He wouldn’t have liked it, if he had (it’s far too far and far too hot, and far too painful to consider what could have been).

He shakes off his imaginary holiday to India (because isn’t that the most pathetic foster child shit in the whole world?). He needs to gather himself, and gather his shit. He needs to go, before he does something stupid, like burn this whole fucking castle to the ground. Does stone burn? Harry Evans is more than willing to find out.

Shay is happy to see him at least.   
Well, as happy as the bastard gets.   
He flicks his tongue, and slithers up Harry’s sleeve with minimal complaining.

_“I didn’t think you were going to return.”_

“As if I’d leave you!”

_“You already did leave me.”_ Shay points out.

“But doesn’t distance make the heart grow fonder?”

_“No.”_

Harry pokes his arm where Shay is nestled in a half hearted attempt at retaliation. Maybe Shay realises that their bantering seems hollow, because he falls silent after that, content to doze against Harry’s shoulder.

It’s when Harry yanks the box from under his mattress that he falters, fingertips brushing against the peeling tape. He’s about to open it, about to bask and writhe in the pain that seeing the contents brings, because Harry Evans is something of a masochist, when his eyes catches on something else. Something wedged between the mattress and the bedframe, in a way that would be clearly visible when the duvet was pulled back.   
A little black book, bound in leather.

It doesn’t belong to Harry. And Harry’s learned from years in group homes that you don’t touch things that don’t belong to you (not if you want to stay unmaimed). That you can be as rude and abrasive, and as big of a prick as you want, you still have to respect that some things are sacred. That things are all that most of them have.   
But the book is in Harry’s room. Well, the room that Harry was sleeping in, up until recently.   
And it hasn’t been misplaced on accident. No. Someone put it there, someone shoved it in that gap, in a way that’s made the spine buckle slightly.   
It’s almost like they wanted him to find it.   
And that alone should make Harry leave it exactly where it is. The fact that someone wants him to take it would usually make Harry do the exact opposite.   
But there’s something about it. Something that reels him it (which is fucking stupid, because it’s just some shitty little book).

“Who left this book here?” he asks Shay.

_“How am I supposed to know?”_

“God, you are so fucking useless.”

Harry picks it up.   
He turns it in his hands.   
It’s engraved with some pretentious fucking name. Well, the ‘Marvello’ part. Tom is pretty much bang average as far as names go.   
He wants to look inside. He shouldn’t look inside.   
He opens the front cover.   
The first page is blank, as is the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the whole fucking thing.   
It’s disappointing really. Harry’s broken a personal rule about not messing with other people’s shit, and he has nothing to show for it.   
He should really just leave the book where he found it.   
It’s not as if he has any use for a monogrammed diary.   
It’s not as if he’s going to start a fucking dream journal or something (the only person who would’ve cared enough to hear about that is gone, or as good as).   
He should really just leave the book where he found it.   
He doesn’t want to.   
He shoves the book in his pocket, feeling oddly guilty, like a kid in a candy jar or whatever the fuck.   
It’s just a book. If ‘Tom’ misses it that badly, he can get another one, but it’s not like he’s even used this one in the first place. 

* * *

Draco knows that the girl’s toilets aren’t the best place to have a fucking meltdown, but it’s not as if he planned it. If he could stop his hands from shaking, stop his breath from catching, stop his eyes from watering, for just a moment, then he’d be in a state to leave.   
The problem is that he can’t.   
Because he’s weak. Because he’s pathetic. Because he doesn’t know how to be anybody but himself. He’s staring at his reflection, with this intense focus, as if glaring hard enough will change what he sees, when he catches a glimpse of black curls and brown skin in the corner of the mirror.

He whips around.

“Hey.” Says Harry, as if this situation is the most normal thing in the world.

“What are you doing here?”

“Going for a piss?” Replies Harry, with a quirked eyebrow, as if Draco is the strange one here. As if Draco is the one who fucked off, only to magically reappear in the exact room a mental breakdown is happening in.

“This is the girl’s toilets.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not a girl.”

“Neither are you.”  
Harry makes a good point there.   
“And I’m only here because I was told they’d be empty.”

“Told by who.”

Harry just smirks, and taps the side of his nose, adjusting the strap of his bag on his back as he does so.

“Where are you going?”

“Away.”

The words spill out of his mouth before Draco can stop them, “Can I come?”

Harry’s expression is unreadable. He tilts his head, and looks at Draco, really looks at him, as if he’s seeing him for the very first time.   
“If you tell me why you’re crying.”

“You don’t care why I’m crying. No one cares.”   
And there it is again. The insufferable self-pity that has become characteristic for him. It doesn’t help that it’s as true as it is pathetic. But it’s Harry, and Draco is pretty convinced that no one cares about Harry either, although he doesn’t exactly make it easy.

“I care.” Harry blanches, shaking his head slightly, “Nope. That didn’t even sound a little bit convincing. But I do still want to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m unbelievably nosy.”

“And if I tell you, I can come with you?”  
And Draco doesn’t know why he’s repeating it for a second time. Because he can’t. He can’t go with Harry. He can’t just run away. There’s a mark on his arm, and a mark by his name, and it’s all so complicated and he’s just so wrapped up in it, he’s said things. He’s done things. He can’t just go.   
Can he?

“If it’s a good enough reason to be crying.”

“Oh. So you’re going to judge me for my emotional pain.”

“Yes.” Replies Harry, as if it’s obvious.

“Why are you even still talking to me?”

“Because you’re fit, and I hate seeing fit people sad.”  
Harry’s tone shifts so quickly that Draco whips his head up in shock.   
What? What? What’s that supposed to mean?  
A look flashes across Harry’s face, something like shame. It’s gone as quickly as it arrived.

“Wow, you really know what a guy wants to hear.”

“I can be quite charming you know… when I want to be.”

“Oh I’ll bet. And why don’t you try this more often?”

“There’s not usually someone pretty enough around for it to be worth the effort”

Harry is standing so close to Draco that they’re almost touching. He’s staring directly into Draco’s eyes. It’s chillingly intimate. Especially when Harry reaches up to smooth Draco’s hair out of his face. Draco does his best to ignore the static memory of Harry’s fingertips on his skin, instead focusing on the complicated, almost haunted look in Harry’s eyes, visible even through the smudges on his glasses.

“And there’s someone pretty enough now?” Draco breathes, softly.

“I guess. Well, not when he’s blubbering like a baby in the girls bathrooms.”

“I don’t imagine that’s a great look on anyone.”

“Oh you’d be surprised.”

Draco wants to kiss Harry. He wants to kiss him so badly that it hurts.   
But he can’t.   
He can’t kiss Harry just like he can’t go with Harry.   
No matter how much he wants to.

“Would I?”

“And the waterworks have stopped! That’s the Evan’s guarantee.”

And with that, Harry turns away, shrugging it off as if they weren’t just breathing in each other’s air, as if they weren’t just close enough to feel the heat radiating from each other’s bodies.   
There’s a wicked smile on his face, one that doesn’t match the pained look in his eyes.

“Are you coming, blondie?”

It’s a split second decision, and it’s probably the wrong one. Draco follows Harry out of the bathroom, consequences be damned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!
> 
> Bit of a complicated reunion there! we'll hear more of Harry's side next time!  
> The plot is thickening for sure!
> 
> Let me know what you think!!!


	34. A bit fucking cursed

Harry can hear the blond kid behind him, catching the door before it fully swings closed.   
He feels sick.   
He feels sick to his fucking stomach, because there was no reason. There was no fucking reason at all for him to do that.   
He saw the look in the other kid’s eyes, he saw the desperation, cloying and all consuming.   
He could’ve just let the kid come. He didn’t have to do the rest of it.   
He’s always been a flirt, to the point of self-destruction at times.   
A teasing comment here, a quirked brow there, a suggestive look. He does it often. Too often. Sometimes in places, and with people where it’s a bad idea. Sometimes it ends in shouting, other times it ends in what should come up as a black eye, or a broken rib, but never do.   
And for a while it was some ridiculous self-punishment shit, and then it became something different, something warped. Just another thing that Harry Evans used to antagonise people.

But he wasn’t antagonising the kid there.   
He doesn’t know what he was doing.   
He doesn’t know what he’s doing full stop.   
He misses Aman so much it hurts, and then he flirts with other people at the first chance he gets.   
It makes him feel hollow, more so than ever.   
It makes him feel like he doesn’t even deserve the shattered feeling that accompanies the lack of Aman. It makes him feel stupid and vacant and weak.   
And blondie (fucking hell, he really needs to learn the kid’s name), doesn’t deserve this shit either. He’s very clearly not okay, and Harry didn’t even pretend to be empathetic. Instead he just made his fucked up loneliness and self-destructive habits someone else’s problem.   
No wonder everything in Harry’s life tends to implode.

The fact that if not for Aman, he’d probably already have at least tried to shag blondie doesn’t make it any better. In fact, it probably makes it about fifty times worse (not that this is the sort of thing you can quantify). The fact that he maybe likes blondie, maybe a little, however subconsciously, makes the whole situation a hell of a lot more fucking complicated, because Aman’s not just something that can be replaced with another warm body. Aman isn’t just someone that can replaced. The hole that Aman has left in Harry’s chest, in Harry’s life, can probably never be filled. Harry gets attached painfully quickly, Harry entwines himself with other people painfully quickly, if he lets loose for even a moment. He won’t be making that mistake again (he tells himself that every single time, and he still manages to lose people).

And it’s not like Aman has died. It’s not like he’s even allowed to mourn him. Aman isn’t gone, Harry’s Aman is gone. The Aman that Harry knew, the Aman that Harry loved, the Aman that Harry needed. And it’s his fault. It has to be. He always ends up ruining things in the end.

So it’s fucking shameful (and shame isn’t a common word for Harry) of him to even halfway get involved in blondie, however deep and sorrowful those eyes are, however strangely attractive it is when blondie tilts his chin upwards, holding his ground. However easy it would be. However distracting it would be. The fact that Harry is only just now noticing this shit, or just now piecing it together in his apparently diseased mind, is sickening. Harry is so pathetic that he apparently can’t even wait a single fucking moment. He apparently has no respect for Aman, no respect for blondie, and also no fucking respect for himself.

He pinches his wrist, hard.   
It barely helps. He’s not surprised. The situation, and apparently his brain, are fucked up beyond belief.

It’s hot in here. It’s so fucking hot in here. What is it with this castle and being like a fucking oven?   
He should probably tell blondie that he can’t actually come. He can’t actually come because Harry doesn’t have a fucking destination. He’s just running away.   
He can’t run from himself.   
  


* * *

  
Sirius smiles when he Harry comes out of the toilets. His smile quickly falls when he sees who’s following him.

Harry motions behind him, without even turning around.   
“He’s coming too.”

“Nope. Not happening.” Sirius automatically responds.

There is no way. There is no fucking way that he’s getting caught up in the Malfoy family drama (which is unfortunately also his own family drama).

Draco’s head whips up. His eyes are red rimmed, his skin tinged slightly grey. He doesn’t look well. It reminds Sirius of how Reg looked when he—well, it’s better not to dwell on it.   
“Sirius Black.” Whispers Draco, in a disbelieving tone.

“In the flesh.” Sirius drawls sarcastically. “You aren’t coming.” He then informs Draco.

Harry bristles, “Why the fuck not?”

“Because he’s- he’s-“ Sirius looks to Remus for support.

“He’s what?”

“His family, they’re Death-Eaters, they’re You-know-who’s followers.” Remus says smoothly, filling in the gap. Sirius knows he needs to get a grip, and stop struggling with his association with his family, but it’s hard when some of his not so distant relatives spent twelve years just down the corridor from him.

“Okay? What’s your point? Not everyone is like their family. Mine, for example, is dead.”

Remus gapes at Harry, apparently lost for words.

Sirius turns his attention back to Draco, appraising him. You can’t judge someone by their family, Harry is right, however bluntly he expressed it. Sirius knows that better than most. But there is one simple way to find out. “If you want to come, Draco, show me your arm.”

Draco pales even further. “Show you my what?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Harry’s eyes are curious, but he stays silent, probably for the first time in his life, as Draco slowly rolls up his sleeve with trembling fingers.

And Sirius is hoping that it’s not going to be there. He really is. He’s hoping that Draco isn’t infected with the poison of his parents. Sirius managed it. It’s possible. He’s really hoping that Draco’s forearm is smooth and pale and blank. But the bottom of the mark quickly becomes visible, and Sirius shakes his head, almost sadly. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

Maybe if Harry wasn’t here. Maybe if the war wasn’t brewing. Maybe then Sirius would see this as a second chance. A chance he never had with his brother.   
But they can’t afford to give people the benefit of the doubt. Not now.

“He’s got a tacky tattoo? So fucking what? You should see some of mine I—”

Remus sighs, heavily. “It’s the mark of You-know-who’s followers.”

“Oh.” Harry’s face goes from outraged to blank in an instant. “Oh.”

Draco gives Harry this strange look, somewhere between sorrow and shame.   
“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, in this tiny, ashamed voice.

Sirius almost pities him. And then he catches sight of the mark on his arm again, and the pity withers up and dies.

“Why are you sorry?” Harry’s voice is more monotone than usual, thick with an emotion that Sirius bets Harry himself doesn’t even understand. His eyes are painfully blank.

“He’s not a good person. I’m not a good person.”

“Well join the fucking club.”

“What?”

“Have you met me? I’m a fucking horrible person.” Harry’s voice is thicker and louder, and so strained that it’s almost cracking. Sirius can see Harry trembling, not with nerves, but with anger. Gone is the façade of blankness. Now he can see the pain and the strain and the rage, burning like a fire, in Harry’s eyes.

Remus tries to placate him. “Harry, it doesn’t work like that—”

“Stop fucking patronising me.” Harry is full on yelling at this point. Sirius knows it isn’t the moment, but he’s glad that Remus had to forethought to extend muffling charms to cloak around them.

“I don’t think you understand.” Remus begins gently, no doubt about to explain it to Harry, in a gentle, inoffensive way. No doubt about to try an approach that would work on nearly anyone. But unfortunately, Harry is not just anyone.

“I fucking understand. I understand that nothing fucking makes any sense.”

Harry is spitting and seething at this point, angrier than Sirius has ever seen him, but also strangely in control. There’s no static in the air, no sparks at his fingertips. Not yet at least. The lack of magic is almost scarier than when it’s there, unpredictable and uncontrolled. It’s scarier because Sirius knows that it’s still there, the only difference is that it’s bubbling and boiling inside Harry, and it could hurt him, or burst out at any moment. Harry continues ranting, pain etched on his features.

“When I went to see my fucking boyfriend in London he didn’t even know my name anymore, and the guy I maybe like even though I shouldn’t is apparently part of the fucking wizard equivalent of Hitler youth. So yeah. Maybe I’m beginning to feel a bit fucking cursed.”

Sirius feels his stomach drop. “Say that again.”

“I’m beginning to feel a bit cursed? Are you fucking taunting me?”

Sirius can feel the walls start to tremble, just slightly. They need to get this situation, and Harry, back under control, as soon as possible.

Remus’ voice is soft, more gentle than Sirius could ever be. “The bit about your boyfriend not knowing your name anymore.”

“When I saw him, he just didn’t fucking recognise me, okay?”

“No. It’s not okay.”

Harry takes a half step backwards, pinching his fingers into his wrist, like he has a habit of doing. “Well of course it’s fucking not okay. None of this is fucking okay. I just wanted to go home, and now I don’t fucking have a home. Everything’s out in the open now. Just like this is some shit therapy circle.”

The stones in the walls are scraping against each other, the grating sound echoing down the corridor. The cobblestones in the floor are clattering, rippling like seismic waves, with Harry at the epicentre. The air is electric, and almost scalding. Sirius can feel the sheen of sweat on his body, he can feel every hair standing up. He struggles to keep his cool. 

“He didn’t recognise you, or he didn’t remember you?”

“Is there a fucking difference?”

“Yes there is.” Sirius takes a deep breath in. He doesn’t know what will happen when he says this, but he needs to get it out in the open. Harry needs to, Harry deserve to, know. “Harry, I think someone may have cast a spell on him to make him forget.”

All at once, the clattering, and the scraping stops.   
Harry’s jaw sets.   
The air is suddenly cold. So cold that Sirius can see his breath as he exhales.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll find out.” It sounds like a threat, the way Harry says it.

There’s something terrifying about the sudden control that Harry has over himself.   
There’s something terrifying about his eyes, suddenly almost black, brimming with something more than rage. Nothing like his mother’s eyes at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy!
> 
> Hope yall enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think!


	35. Nothing good is

Draco expects them to leave without him.

It’s a combination of the look in Sirius’ eyes, all resigned and disappointed, a look that Draco knows all too well, but with a dimension of softness to it that is unfamiliar to him. It’s the look in Sirius’ eyes and the sudden pure power radiating from Harry, power that leaves him reeling, the memory of static clinging to his skin. He’s never felt power like that before (he hopes he never will again).   
In the chaos and the anger and the sudden pain, Draco assumes he’ll be forgotten, too jagged and broken and tainted to fit in the messy situation.

He assumes wrong.

Because as Remus and Sirius turn to leave, turn to head back down the corridor and out of the doors, presumably to somewhere the wards don’t reach, so they can apparate to wherever they’ve come from, Harry doesn’t follow.   
Instead he faces Draco, his jaw still set, his eyes still dark and vengeful.

“Let’s go.”  
He is voice is low and rough.

He extends his hand, halfway to Draco. His fingers are trembling, just slightly.

Draco wants to ask why. He wants to know why Harry would still want to be anywhere near him, now that he knows about the mark and the shame, and how disgustingly pathetically weak Draco is. He wants to know why Harry would still want to touch him when he knows how tainted Draco is. He wants to know what Harry is doing, with the pain in his eyes and the boyfriend who no longer knows his name. He wants to know how he fits into crevices of Harry Evan’s life, whether he fits at all.

But those sorts of questions are never going to have answers he likes, so he just nods mutely, and after a split second of not-thinking-things-through, he surges forward and grasps Harry’s hand in his own, slotting their fingers together.  
It’s the way Harry’s fingers mesh together with his, the way Harry grips him tightly, like he’s scared Draco will float away, like Draco is a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from shattering. It’s the way Harry’s hand feels in his own, the sparks of static the contact leaves him with, it makes Draco feel lightheaded, it makes him feel woozy, it makes him feel strangely alert, but also as if he’s dreaming whilst he’s awake.   
The whole situation seems so impossibly dream like that he’s sure he’ll snap awake at any moment, painfully alone.

“Harry…” Sirius says softly, warningly, his eyes flickering down to their intertwined fingers.

“Not now.” Harry replies, and he sounds so suddenly defeated, like all the rage has trickled out of him, and left him empty and deflated.

Sirius nods curtly, giving Draco an incomprehensible look, a mixture of so many complicated emotions. Draco knows that Sirius has, had, a complicated relationship with his family, and that Draco is almost family, and that seeing him here, mark on his arm, hand in hand with Harry must be strange. It is strange. Draco doesn’t understand, and he doubts Harry understands. Draco knows he doesn’t deserve any semblance of kindness.   
But with Sirius’ nod, and Harry’s hand, he’s got it anyway.

He can’t mess this up. It feels like his last chance.

* * *

Harry wants to hurt someone.   
Harry wants to break something.   
Harry wants to scream and shake and cry, wants all his self destructive habits to come bubbling up to the surface and consume him all at once.   
Harry wants to bleed, and to draw blood.   
Harry wants someone else, anyone else, to be as twisted and tormented as he is.   
But more than that, Harry wants to make the person who did this to him pay.   
And he will.

He’s already imagining it, dark and depraved, all the things he’ll do to the person who took Aman from him, the person who took Aman from himself.   
As much he wants the pain and the destruction, he also suddenly feels so painfully hollow. The fact that someone took Aman, the fact that it wasn’t something he did by accident, it wasn’t just something that happened, the fact that someone chose to do this, makes him feel even more alone. He wants it to all be over. He wants it to all be okay.

He doesn’t want to be alone anymore.   
And holding blondie- Draco’s- hand, makes it all feel a bit better somehow, however momentarily.

He grips it as tight as he can, focuses on the fingers flexing against his slightly, and tries to ignore the static sparks which fizzle between their palms.   
Draco is complicated. Draco is a bad person. Draco is a broken person. Draco has the aura about him of some of the kids at the group home, the ones who were never allowed to be themselves, and were instead left with that lost look in their eyes, with no direction, and no real purpose. Draco isn’t easy. But nothing good is.   
And Harry is well aware that the best way to deal with loss isn’t just to plug it up with another person, but why does he have to deal with things in the best way? Why does he have to try and do things properly, when there’s no rule book for this, because it’s a fucking insane situation?   
He needs to do what’s right for him, even if it’s not the right thing to do.   
And in this moment, holding Draco’s hand makes him feel more grounded, makes him feel more human. In this moment, holding Draco’s hand almost makes him feel safe.

And that’s better than fucking nothing. 

* * *

  
Albus will admit, finding that letter was a stroke of luck.

Okay, luck didn’t have everything to do with it, but then again, luck is a fickle thing. Anything that can be brewed in a bottle and topped with a stopper is fickle. That’s part of the reason Albus stopped believing in love. And yes, he knows that it’s not really love that one can brew, it’s a mockery of love, it’s infatuation, it’s lust. He just isn’t so sure there’s such a thing as real love anyway. He just isn’t sure whether the difference between so called ‘love’ and infatuation is really that great.

The only thing he knows to be true, the only instinct he’s ever truly had, is that of self-preservation. It sounds calloused, but it’s not as if he doesn’t care for the people around him. There are many people he cares about a great deal, but no one he cares about more than he cares for himself. There’s no one’s life he would place above his own. Not anymore.   
And some would call that cruel, but he can’t deny his natural instinct. It’s got him this far, after all.   
Love is fickle. Luck is fickle. Albus is not fickle.   
And the letter? The letter is perfect.   
It’s certainly not a piece of winning prose, there’s nothing poetic about it, but then again, what did Albus really expect from Harry Evans?   
But there’s a name. And a real sentiment about it.   
It’s to someone Harry cares about.   
It’s a weakness.   
And Albus knows better than most how weaknesses can be exploited.

  
So he pays the boy, this ‘Aman’ a visit. It didn’t take long to find him, not at all.   
Albus’ first thought, upon encountering Aman, is how painfully average he is. There’s really nothing special about him. Nothing the world would miss.   
And this average boy is just walking around the streets of London with all this knowledge brimming in his brain. He knows about Harry’s other weaknesses. He knows about all the soft spots.

He doesn’t want to tell Albus, not at first. Albus doesn’t relish in what comes next, but soon enough Aman is more than willing to talk. More than willing to spill everything he knows, like an overflowing chalice.   
And it’s interesting.   
It’s very interesting indeed.

And as Albus goes to wipe all memory of the somewhat unpleasant encounter (which really would’ve been fine if Aman had cooperated in the first place) from the boy’s head, he has a stroke of genius.

He weighs up the facts that he knows even better now.   
Harry has a short temper. Harry is powerful, more powerful than even Albus himself realised, in spite of the (deliberately) clumsy way they’ve been honing his talents at Hogwarts. Harry could snap at any moment, in fact, he’s snapped a few times before. Harry is only really tethered down to earth by Aman, and a handful of other friends that can just as easily be taken care of. Harry being alone will make this whole thing much easier. Isolation has a tendency to drive a man mad.   
And if Harry snaps, well, Albus will really have no choice but to take him down.   
It will be a matter of self-preservation at that point.   
If Harry is vengeful and wild and out of control, when Albus only wiped poor Aman’s mind to protect him, well, no one will be able to blame Albus. No one will be able to blame him at all.   
And Albus will have saved the world from two darknesses.   
From Tom Riddle, and from Harry Evans.

As Albus digs around the tangled mess of Aman’s mind, scooping out any glimmer of green eyes and wild curls, he feels his lips twitching into a smile.   
Finding that letter really was a stroke of luck.

And Albus’ luck continues, less than a month later, when he gets his hands on the diary.   
And the plan falls into place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy heydy!
> 
> Let me know what you think!  
> I love writing the bits from Dumbledoos point of view because he is legit insane like he is depraved 
> 
> I need to write more but also exams but also writing


	36. Abrasive and incendiary

When they arrive back at the house (not his house, because he doesn’t have one of those anymore (he hasn’t really ever had one)), Harry drops Draco’s hand like it’s burning him (it might as well be). He shoves his own hands into his pockets. He feels so suddenly tired, like he’s crashing back down to earth, like he’s a candle that was burning on both ends, and has now disintegrated into a puddle of wax. He thinks he might know what would make him feel better, but he shakes the thought away before it has time to properly settle. He knows (from Alisha) that his ‘coping mechanisms’ are ‘unhealthy’ enough as it is. 

So instead he counts, slow and steady. And in between the numbers, he focuses on the feelings that make him real. He focuses on the cool weight of Shay on his neck, he focuses on the absence of Draco’s hand in his own, the lingering warmth clinging to his palm. He focuses on the dampness of his toes where the water has seeped through the hole in the toe of his boot, he focuses on the feelings of the contents of his pockets against his fingertips, the fraying pouch of baccy and the sharp edges of the mirror and the diary. The diary.

Another stupid fucking nonsensical thing about that place. Someone breaking into his room, not to take something, but to leave something behind. He wouldn’t be surprised, in that fucking death trap, if someone broke in and left a bomb or some shit. Maybe the same someone who did whatever they did to Aman.

And all at once he doesn’t feel like counting anymore. And then the anger rises in him again, and his grip, his focus, is lost. (He’s lost).

“I’m going upstairs.”

It’s better than imploding in front of everyone. Anything is better than that. He’s not sure why he cares so much, but for some reason he doesn’t want them to see Harry Evans at his very worst.

He doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t second guess leaving Draco with two men who don’t seem to be his number one fans. They’re all big boys, they can work it out themselves.   
It’s not as if his presence, abrasive and incendiary as it is, will help anything.

Harry Evans wants a fag, and then he wants to throw himself, or whoever hurt Aman, into rush hour traffic. He wants to do more than that, but it’s best to keep death wishes (against yourself and others) in the abstract.

The door closes behind him, in a sort of measured and controlled way that he didn’t know he was capable of. He needs to think about this. He needs to think about what his options are. Needs to think of how to get answers, or revenge, or Aman back, or all of the above. But he can’t. For Harry, thinking is a dangerous game, and the more he thinks, the more he spirals.   
He needs a distraction. (There’s a distraction downstairs, one with warm hands and sad grey eyes).   
He needs a less complicated distraction.   
He needs an easy, less complicated distraction.

Harry thumbs the pages of the diary, considering it for a brief moment.   
Most of the pages are too thick, too aged, but the one slotted right by the front cover would work, just thin enough, with a slightly glossy finish. The diary technically belongs to some prick called Tom, but it was left in Harry’s room, in Harry’s bed, and he’s pretty sure that that makes it fair game. Besides, it’s not as if he’s going to find himself in a situation where he’s able to return it.

He tears the paper carefully, as close to the spine as possible, and then he sets to sectioning it up, portioning out the baccy and rolling with practiced ease.  
He gets five decent fags out of the one page, which isn’t bad, considering it’s quite a small book, and also the fact that he’s on the verge of (or in the process of having) a mental fucking breakdown and so his hands are shaking a lot more than usual. He keeps having to run his fingertips over the smooth scales of Shay’s back to cool them down. Shay who has elected to take an afternoon nap rather than help him. Fucking bastard.

Harry lights a fag and puts it between his teeth, biting into the filter a little bit harder than necessary.

“Sorry.” He says to the book, as if it can hear him.

He’s about to close it, dump it with the rest of his shit and then probably go and do something stupid and self-destructive (as usual), when he notices a blotch on the front page which definitely wasn’t there before.   
And isn’t that the cherry on the top of the fucking cake. Not only is Harry fucking alone in the world, because someone decided to intentionally destroy his boyfriend’s mind, but he himself is now apparently going fucking senile.

But then the blotch starts to move, merging and morphing, tendrils of ink twisting round, until it spells out three words, in perfect loopy cursive.   
“It’s okay, Harry.”

Harry stares at the page for a long moment. He blinks. He takes a deep breath. He blinks again.  
“What the fuck.”

* * *

  
Draco shifts from foot to foot, doing his best to avoid catching Sirius’ eye. Eyes which he can feel boring into him.   
He deserves it, but that doesn’t make him feel any less uncomfortable.  
Harry left the room, so tense he was practically vibrating. Harry dropped his hand, and left him all by himself. Draco wishes he’d followed, but what would he have said? What would he have done?   
His arm tingles again with phantom pains, stretching from wrist to elbow.   
He wonders if there are any charms he could use to remove it all together.

“Draco.” Sirius says, in a very strange tone. It seems like a command, but Draco has no idea what he’s being commanded to do. He’s used to being commanded to do things.

He wants to say sorry, he wants to apologise, no matter how little difference it makes. Those words are on the tip of his tongue, but they aren’t the ones that come out.

“Aren’t you a murderer?”  
His voice is strikingly cold.

“What.”

“Aren’t you a mass murderer?”  
He’s not quite sure why he repeats it. He can already see the ice in Sirius’ eyes. It’s best not to push people when they look at you like that.

“I was framed.”  
Sirius narrows his eyes at Draco, slightly challengingly.   
Draco does not rise to the challenge.

“Oh.”

The silence stretches on.   
He wonders if it’s better or worse than the silence of mealtimes with his parents. He decides it’s better (at least Remus and Sirius don’t know him and despise him).

Remus speaks this time. “Why are you here?”

“Harry-“

Remus interrupts him. “Why did Harry bring you here?”  
Draco doesn’t like being interrupted. He doesn’t like being talked over. He doesn’t like when people assume things about him. Draco doesn’t stand up for himself very often.

“Ask him yourself.”

The silence stretches on again.

Suddenly Draco hears a loud crash from upstairs. He hears Harry make a noise, somewhere between a shout and a yelp. He can smell smoke.   
When they get to the room, having all rushed up, Harry is standing in the middle, by the bed, where Shay lies, curled up. The reflection of something burning in the fireplace glitters on his glasses.   
Not just something.   
It’s the little black book.   
  


* * *

  
“What’s going on?” Remus asks softly.

“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s fine.” Harry’s voice is monotone, edging on apathetic.

“What’s that?” Remus motions towards the fire, still blazing in the hearth.

Harry doesn’t even turn his head. “A book.”

“Why are you burning a book.”

Harry finally looks Remus in the eye, raising his eyebrows challengingly. “What, you mean why am I doing it and not Hitler youth over there?”

Draco flinches. He’s gone almost grey, this pained look on his face which almost makes Remus feel bad about the way he spoke to him earlier.

Harry continues, as if his words aren’t as sharp as knives. “It knew my name, okay?”

“What?”

“Yes I know I sound fucking insane okay!” Harry mumbles something to himself, and then continues louder, with an edge of desperation. “It said my name. My fucking name appeared on the page.”

“Maybe it was enchanted, I-“

“I don’t care if the fucking book was enchanted or whatever the fuck. I’ve seen horror movies before. I am not about to start fucking living in one, okay?”

“It’s not burning.” Draco says softly, almost disbelievingly.

Remus turns his eyes to the hearth. The book is still almost fully intact, the pages slightly charred, the corners slightly singed.   
Sirius and Draco don’t move, they just stare at it. Sirius’ expression is unreadable. Draco looks like he might be sick.   
Remus decides to take the initiative, and he pads over to the almost dead flames, and snatches up the book, flipping it over in his hands, running his finger over the back cover.   
When he sees the name embossed in the leather, he feels his stomach drop.

“I think we need to talk to Dumbledore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello long time no see
> 
> Have been suffering from the old writers block   
> Hope the next one is coming faster!
> 
> Let me know what you think


	37. Not in the mood

Harry barks out a laugh. “No.”

“Harry-“ Remus doesn’t even sound like he’s trying to convince him.

“What? He gives me the creeps, definite Jimmy Saville vibe about that man.”  
Sirius snorts, but doesn’t make any move to correct him. There’s not really any use in trying to correct Harry anyway (and he just might be right).

“He gives you the creeps, right, just like this book gives you the creeps.”   
Sirius can see what Remus is trying to do, attempting to rationalise with him. Unfortunately Harry isn’t really the rational sort, especially now. Sirius doesn’t know who would be, considering the awful circumstances.

“I’d take the book that knows my name over him, and that’s fucking saying something.”

“Yes. But I think we need his help to destroy the book.”

Remus is picking his words carefully, dancing around the matter at hand. Sirius remembers when he first found out about the Horcruxes. No amount of careful language, or coloured half truths changed the fact that it was one of the weirdest, most perverse things he’d ever heard.

Harry sighs patronisingly, as if he’s dealing with a couple of toddlers. “No we don’t, look.”

Suddenly he surges forward, snatching the book out of Remus’ grasp, and with a flick of his wrist, it’s gone.   
Draco pales even more.   
Sirius feels the blood draining from his own face slightly. It shouldn’t be that easy. It isn’t that easy.

“How did you-“

“Where did it go?”

“Hell if I fucking know, away from me.” Harry seems much less tense now. Sirius wonders if the saying is true, ‘out of sight, out of mind.’

“Harry, the book can’t just be ‘away’, it has to be destroyed” Remus repeats emphatically.

“Jesus Christ, you lot are so fucking dramatic.”  
They’re the dramatic ones? Sirius supresses an eye roll at that. It wouldn’t help anyone, and if anything it would just prove Harry’s point.

“Can you get it back?” He asks, carefully, keeping his tone light and curious.

Harry narrows his eyes slightly, but answers, “I don’t know, I don’t tend to want to get things back.”

“What else have you vanished?”

Harry’s expression darkens slightly, but when he speaks, his voice is neutral, bordering on bland. “Nothing that anyone missed.”

Draco opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, and then closes it again.   
Sirius shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He’s not felt this uncomfortable inside his own home since his mother died. (This place only started feeling like it could be a home when his mother died).

Harry barely lets the silence hang for a full thirty seconds before he straightens, seeming to snap into action, like a puppet who’s had its strings pulled taut.   
“I’m hungry. Is anyone else hungry?”

“Harry-“

Harry continues as if Remus never spoke. “Vanishing fucking haunted books really works up an appetite, who knew?”

“Can you bring it back, Harry?” Remus asks, with an edge of harshness to his voice.

“Can you get me something to eat, Remus?”

Remus stares at Harry, for a long hard moment, and Sirius can almost taste the tension, hanging heavy between them, crackling in the air.

“There’s food in the kitchen.”

“I want a pizza.” Harry’s voice is slow, and smooth, more like a command than a request.

“We don’t have pizza.”

“Have you heard of ordering food? Or is that not invented in whatever fucking fantasy world you all seem to be living in?”

Harry stares at Remus. Remus stares at Harry. The air crackles.

“I think I have a number for a place.”

“Great! No need to call, I’ll go there now.” Harry replies, with artificial brightness.

“It’s not safe, Harry.”

“What, scared someone will corner me in an alleyway?”

“Just order it to here.”

Harry stares at Remus for another long moment, but eventually concedes. “Fucking fine, Jesus, I’m not a fucking year seven. Where’s the phone?”

“In the parlour.”

“The parlour. Oh of course. Jesus fuck.” He turns to leave, then pauses, clearly considering something. Sirius can almost see the cogs in his brain turning. “You, blondie, come with me.”

Like an obedient dog, Draco follows him out of the room, leaving Remus and Sirius alone.   
The air still hums with echoes of electricity.

“What do we do now?”  
  


* * *

  
Harry leans against the railing, staring up at the grey sky.   
He quite likes overcast days, when the sky is calm, with the promise of something to come. He isn’t much liking today, but that has less to do with the weather, and more to do with the increasing insanity that his life has descended into. He finds himself hoping, not for the first time, that it’s all just a very long, very bad trip.

He can feel Draco shuffling awkwardly beside him, but he elects to ignore it. He’s had a hard fucking day, one which is not being improved by the presence of a potential fascist.   
A potential fascist who he invited to be with him. That’s fucked up in more than a few ways, but Harry doesn’t have the time or the energy to even begin to unpick that now.   
He’s never really been one for politics. Really he hates the fucking lot of them, lying and cheating their way to the top (doing exactly what he would do, given the chance). He’s not some activist. He’s never had the energy, or the inclination, to care too much. Caring about stuff you can’t change only ever ends up hurting you in the long run.   
But Harry is also not a fucking fascist, and he can’t even imagine a world where he would be. There’s a difference between passively not giving a shit, and actively hating minorities, and Harry would like to think that he’s on the right side of that line.   
Draco, it seems, is not.   
Draco has a fuck off massive tattoo on his arm to declare the fact that he is not.   
And he’s not mad because some psycho Nazi cult leader bloke killed his parents. Draco didn’t do that, and Harry doesn’t even care either way (he really doesn’t). But Draco hates muggles, or whatever the fuck they call them. Draco is part of an organisation which advocates for the genocide of innocents, based on the circumstances of their birth. And that makes Harry fucking mad.

And every second spent mad at Draco, is a second he’s not imploding because of Aman.   
But every second spent mad at Draco is also a second where Harry just feels worse about himself. The anger that he feels at Draco, and the anger he feels at whoever did that to Aman, are so distinct that he can’t even pretend to blur them together. 

“Harry, I just wanted to say that-”

Harry waves a dismissive hand. “Not in the mood.”

“I know it’s just, it’s about the book.”  
If Harry hears one more person talking about that fucking book, he might just lose it.

“I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

And he sounds so utterly pitiful, that Harry almost feels a little bad. Almost. To distract himself, he focuses on the haze of the horizon, above the London skyline. He still can’t pinpoint exactly where they are, so if he just finds a landmark he knows, he can orient himself.   
But he can’t focus on his new mission as a navigator, or whatever the word is, when he can feel Draco’s eyes boring into him. He doesn’t turn to face him.

“Be sorry about things which are your fault.”

“I am sorry about those things.”  
Of course Draco is sorry. He’s broken and complicated and withdrawn, and his eyes are so utterly, deeply sad. It’s not a simple situation. Nothing Harry gets his hands on is a simple situation.

“I know you are.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Draco sounds almost offended.

“I just know. Fucking leave it alone why don’t you?” Harry’s hisses, with more venom than he intended.

“You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Draco mumbles, scuffing his feet against the pavement.

And that’s it. Harry is at his fucking limit. He tried not to. He really tried. For once in his fucking life, he really tried not to make himself, and everyone around him feel worse than they already did. But Draco is not making it easy.

“Oh spare me the fucking pity party.” Harry swings round to face him. “You’re sad. Great. Everyone is sad. We’re all fucking miserable. I’ve been miserable my whole fucking life, but you don’t see me moping around about it. You don’t see me using the fact I hate myself as an excuse to hate other people.”

“It’s not an excuse.” Draco replies, in a slightly broken whisper.

“Really, then what is?”

“I’m not making excuses.” Draco repeats, stubbornly.

“What, so now I’m expected to fucking psychoanalyse you, figure out exactly what the fuck is wrong with you. Because there is something very wrong with you. It’s called being a fucking fascist.”

Draco flinches. “I didn’t want it, you know. Not really.”

“And yet you went along with it.” Harry retorts.   
And Harry knows. Harry knows that not everyone is always free to do what they want, to be the person they want to be. And yet he keeps on pushing. He just can’t help himself.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, you just made the wrong one.”

“So why am I here? Why did you bring me here, if you’re just going to yell at me?” Draco’s eyes are blazing with a fire that Harry hasn’t seen before.

“I don’t know. Why do I fucking do anything? What’s fucking wrong with me?”

Draco softens, just slightly. “What was it you said, ‘probably something diagnosable?’”

Harry barely even remembers that, but it does sound like him, sounds prickish and abrasive enough to have come out of the mouth of Harry Evans.

“I don’t know why I brought you here. I just wanted to.”  
Harry tends to do what he wants, when he wants. He’s selfish like that.

“And I wanted to come.”

There’s something else Harry wants. Something he knows he can’t have. Something he knows he shouldn’t have. Especially not now.   
It’s a mistake, one he knows he’ll instantly regret.   
One he’s going to make anyway.

Harry surges forward, up onto his tiptoes and closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against Draco’s. Draco freezes for a moment, going taut and tense. And then he springs back to life. And all of a sudden Harry is kissing Draco, and Draco is kissing Harry.   
It’s fire, it’s fury, it’s pain and sorrow and confusion. It’s electric.   
It’s a mistake he wouldn’t mind making again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very dialogue heavy chapter!
> 
> let me know what you think


	38. Can't teach an old dog new tricks

It’s good. It’s so good that for a fleeting moment, Harry convinces himself that things might just be okay.

But then an instant later, it’s like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. Everything just crashes down, all at once, and suddenly, jarringly, Harry comes to his senses.   
Because what the fuck?   
What the fuck is he doing? What is he trying to achieve here? Aman aside (and it’s a big aside), he’s not sure why he’s decided to snog the wizard version of a white supremacist. It feels like a low, even for him.

It’s not that he hasn’t kissed people he dislikes before. Where Harry’s from, that’s almost a rite of passage, all circled round an empty bottle of Glenn’s, spinning it this way and that, breath tinged with Sourz and Bensons. He didn’t like most of those people, and the few he did like enough to maybe kiss were the ones who laughed when the bottle span their way.   
‘It’s got to be a boy and a girl, Evans. That’s how the game works’, they’d say.   
And he’d roll his eyes and snog some girl with already smudged lipgloss and hazy eyes instead, some girl he didn’t quite like, but didn’t quite hate (and sometimes it was girl he almost hated, one who was cruel, or dismissive, or shallow). He wasn’t sure why he did it. Why he let himself get involved in any of it at all. Probably boredom (more likely loneliness).

But past decisions aside, none of that explains his choice, his mistake, right in the here and now. Instead of trying to fix it, trying to make sense of it, in typical Harry Evans fashion, he makes it worse.

Instead of just stopping kissing him, he shoves Draco, squarely in the chest.   
Draco stumbles backwards, dramatically (especially seeing as Harry didn’t even push him that hard). And he stares at him, with this wounded look in his eyes. It’s just on the wrong side of pathetic.

Instead of saying something, or doing something, Draco just stands there, staring at Harry, with his stupid sad eyes wide, and his cheeks flushed in the cold dusk air.

Harry surges forward, and shoves Draco again, harder this time.   
For some reason, Draco still doesn’t seem to be expecting it, because again, he trips backwards against the force.

It’s only when Harry reels back for a third time, that Draco speaks.

“What?”  
He sounds confused, he sounds a little hurt. It’s not the right combination of emotions. It makes Harry bristle, more than he is already.

“What.”  
Harry’s pissed off, more than a little. With himself, with Draco, with the whole fucking world.

“Why are you pushing me around?”  
Draco is still confused. His voice is small, his question soft. It just riles Harry up further.

“Why are you letting me?”  
Harry is harsh, and snide, and every bit the calloused dick that everyone thinks he is.

“I don’t know.”  
It’s barely more than a whisper. Draco sounds so utterly sad, that Harry almost feels (a little bit) guilty. But it isn’t enough.

“Well, me neither.”

“Okay.”  
Draco nods, defeatedly, looking down at his feet, and shuffling back and forth nervously.

They could almost leave it there, in the weird in between phase, where no one’s yelling, or shoving, or screaming, and where they both feel conflicted and miserable, but Harry just can’t let sleeping dogs lie (or whatever the fucking saying is).

“I don’t like you.” He lies, bringing it back around to their earlier conversation.

“Okay.”  
Draco doesn’t look up from his shoes.   
Harry glances at them from a brief moment, and god, even they’re fucking Tory, all long and buttonholed, embossed with some ugly pattern. He’s being dramatic again, they’re only shoes. (It’s not about the shoes).

“Why are you just fucking agreeing with me?”

“What do you want me to say? Do you want me to beg you to like me, to treat me like a person?”  
Draco asks, voice rising slightly, finally meeting Harry’s eye.

“Here you go again with the self-pity bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Right.” Harry draws the word out, mockingly, “And I’m not a magical orphan freakshow.”

“Now who’s going on with the self pity bullshit?”  
Draco bites back.

Harry narrows his eyes, but doesn’t respond.   
They’re standing there for a long moment, eyes locked, in some strange sort of battle. Harry can’t quite tell who’s winning, he can’t quite tell what winning means.

He’s the first to concede either way, breaking Draco’s gaze, and digging around in his pockets, until his fingers brush against one of the fags he rolled earlier.   
He wonders for a brief moment if he can somehow inhale the ghost, or demon, or whatever, that was in the book. The worry that he was about that is quickly outweighed by the slight tremble in his fingers, the twisting of nicotine craving in his stomach. He lights it up, consequences be damned (that’s practically his moto by now), and slumps down against the low garden wall below the railings.

A few moments later, Draco sits down beside him, not quite touching him, but close enough that Harry can feel the heat radiating between them. He pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders.

Harry lets the smoke spiral upwards into the air. He wonders how much longer Chaz is going to take. God he could do with something stronger than the weed he asked for over the phone right about now. He should’ve ordered a pizza as well, but hey, he’s got his priorities sorted at least.

“My life wasn’t supposed to be like this—” Draco begins.

“God here we fucking go… all aboard the feelings train, next stop, sharing and healing!”   
It’s mean and mocking, and Harry would probably lose it if someone did that to him when he was trying to open up to them, but Draco just fixes him with this long look, one that makes the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. This whole encounter involves way too much eye contact for Harry’s liking.

“I wasn’t meant to be a Death-eater,” Draco reiterates. “I was going to be a potions master, or work in the ministry or something. Not this.”

And because Harry is apparently incapable of having real human emotions, he replies, “A potions master you say… sounds kinky.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to have a moment here.”

“Sorry Mr Potions master, sir, do continue.”

“I just mean that things were meant to be different. I honestly didn’t chose this, not really.”

“You’d much rather be some weird potions dominatrix. I get it man.”  
Harry nods, with emphatic understanding.

“What does that mean?”

Harry pats Draco’s head patronisingly, although the effect is sort of lost in the way that even when they’re sitting (well, Draco’s sitting, and Harry’s slouching), he has to properly reach up to do it. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, champ.”

“There’s no need to be a prick.”

“Oh there isn’t? Someone should’ve told me! To think, I’ve been walking round all this time being a prick for no reason at all.” Harry replies, waving his arms around, more than a little performatively.

“Well I hope this revelation has come in time for you to change your ways.”

“Unlikely. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks!”  
Harry likes that saying, it’s one of his favourites, if you can have such a thing.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on, that saying is pretty self-explanatory. I can’t dumb everything down for you.”

“You could try.”  
And Draco smiles at him, slightly teasing, slightly hopeful. And in spite of himself, Harry smiles back.   
Somehow, slumped against that wall, they reach out for each other, slowly, slowly, until their fingers are intertwined again. They sit in silence as Harry sucks his fag right down the filter, watching the ash glow in the darkening sky.

  
Less than ten minutes later, a sharp whistle sounds, and Harry leaps to his feet, dropping Draco’s hand as if he’s been burned.

“Hey Evans.” Says a familiar voice. The smile is audible, like he’s genuinely happy to see Harry or some shit. It’s probably the drugs.

“Chaz.”

“Feeling better now, got a place to stay and that?”  
Chaz steps under a street lamp, the light casting strange shadows across his angular face. He has an unlit cigarette between his teeth, as always. Harry wonders if he does it to look like the budget version of an old timey gangster, with a cigar. In reality, it’s probably just not lit because Chaz isn’t safe to be let around open flames.

“Eh, no complaints.” Harry replies, with a tight lipped smile. He likes Chaz, he really does, but there’s only so much be friendly that Harry can do in one go, and the quota for today is pretty much full

“Who’s the Eton kid?”  
Harry wasn’t aware that Chaz even knew what Eton was.

“No one important.” Harry replies, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “How much do I owe you?”

“Tell me who the kid is, and we’ll call it even.”

“Is that any way to run a business?”

Chaz blinks, and then shakes his head slowly, “I guess not.”

“So how much do I owe you?” Harry repeats slowly. He probably could’ve got away with it, but he’d feel bad, with how blown wide Chaz’s pupils are, how much he’s rocking back and forth on the spot. Honour among thieves and all that.

“30 quid.”

“Really?”

“Mates rate.”  
Harry ignores how that simple insinuation of them being ‘mates’ makes him feel inside, sort of warm and twisty. He hands over the money (not his money, he technically found it in the desk drawer under the phone, but what’s theirs is his, it’s what his parents would’ve wanted or some shit).

“Thanks man.”

“Anytime.”

“His name is Draco.” Harry then says, for some reason.

Chaz considers it for a long moment, moving his head as if to look Draco up and down, although his eyes don’t move from some unknown fixed spot straight ahead. “Stupid name, no offence mate.”  
Draco makes a strange, slightly strangled sound.

“You’re telling me.”

And then, “Don’t be a stranger Evans.” Which is a funny thing to say, seeing as they practically are strangers.   
And Chaz is gone.

“Who was that?”  
Draco asks, attempting to keep his voice level.

“Friend of mine, what’s it to you, Eton?”

Draco either knows or doesn’t care what Eton is, because there’s no confusion following the new nickname.   
“What did he give you?”

“What do you think he gave me?”  
Harry opens the little sachet, smirking when he sees that Chaz has already rolled one for him.

“Can I have some?” Draco asks in this soft little voice, like he’s sharing a secret.

“No.” Harry replies, in a tone that suggests the opposite.

He’s about to light it there and then, offer a few hits to Draco, and go back inside all mellowed and woozy, in a fit state to face whatever the fuck Sirius and Remus are shellshocked about now.

“Wait Harry, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Okay…” Harry squints at Draco curiously, spinning the joint loosely between his fingertips.

“You know the book, the diary.”

“Jesus fuck, why is everyone so worked up about it. I got rid of it, horror movie averted, which is good for you, because you’d be the first to die if we were living in the fucking Exorcist.”

“I know where it’s from, I’ve seen it before.”

And because he absolutely doesn’t want to unpack whatever that means, he decides to carry on being flippant. “What, was it locked in some glass box, marked ‘do not open under any circumstances’?”

“I thought I destroyed it. I did destroy it. But it came back.”

Harry exhales, long and slow. Is this a prank? It feels like a prank.   
There’s one way to find out.

He focuses for a long moment, clearing his mind of every thought but one. He doesn’t know if it will work (mostly on account of the fact that he doesn’t know what he’s doing). But then there’s a sudden weight in his jacket pocket, bulky against his thigh.   
Ah. Probably not a prank then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the delay life has actually been crazy  
> I have a job which starts at 5am every day so I don't have as much time for writing sadly but im gonna try and finish this


	39. Save the day

Remus barely even waits for Harry (and Draco) to leave the room before he turns to Sirius.   
“We need to call him.”

Him. Him. A man Sirius dislikes more and more with every passing action, with every passing day.

“No we don’t. We can deal with this ourselves; we’re accomplished wizards and all that shit.”  
It’s true. They are. They always were. They were hungry for knowledge, for more spells to learn, and charms to cast, and potions to make. Sirius really could’ve been somebody, somebody big, if life turned out differently. Now he’s the man calling himself accomplished, when he doesn’t even have a legally registered wand.

“We can’t. Not this. It’s dangerous Sirius. You of all people should know that.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”  
It could mean any number of things. It could be referring to the Horcrux in the hand of his now dead house elf. Could be referring to the tapestry of his family tree, containing a multitude of witches and wizards who could’ve, would’ve, might’ve made Horcruxes of their own. Could be referring to the twelve years of listening to the crazed screams of the darkness he was born into. No matter what it means, it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

“Just that you know what Dark Magic can do.”

Sirius stares at him, long and hard. Before, before everything went spiralling down, a comment like that might have made him cry. Now he’s too numb to even feel it at all.

“I am not having that man in my house, and that’s final.”

“Oh.” Remus replies, something indistinct flickering in his eyes. “Your house.”

It’s a point of contention. But it is his house. It is. Their house was meant to be different. Was meant to be a city apartment with a whole wall of bookshelves, and a goofy family photo over the fireplace. It was never meant to be an empty shell, full of more than painful memories.

“For Fucks sake.” Sirius hisses. “That’s what bothers you about this? Our house then. Our fucking house.”   
Harry is rubbing off on him.

“I don’t know why you’re angry at me.”

He does. He must.   
Sirius is only ever angry or tired these days. Being angry makes him tied and being tired makes him angry.

“Because he let me rot in a cell for twelve years, Remus. Twelve years. Either he knew, and he let that happen, let me be ruined, or he didn’t know, and that means he isn’t as great of a wizard as they say.”

There are tears in Remus’ eyes. And doesn’t that just make him feel like shit? He’s done it again. All he ever seems to do it cause problems.   
“He’s a complicated character, I know.”

“Fucking complicated?!” Sirius snaps back, trying to ignore the way Remus flinches. Remus hates it when he shouts. “He ruined our lives. He stole twelve years from us.”  
“That wasn’t him!” Remus shouts. “It was Peter. It was Peter.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything.

“Dumbledore could’ve done something. He could’ve, and he didn’t.”  
Sirius whispers in return, softer than a prayer.

“That doesn’t mean that he won’t do something now.”  
Remus spits back, sharper than he needs to, especially now that Sirius has all but conceded.

He’s about to speak again. To let this fire rage and rage, until it engulfs them both, when Harry saunters in, with Draco trailing behind him. There’s something slightly changed about him, but Sirius can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s like a switch has been flipped, from the Harry they had, vulnerable and broken down, to the Harry they first met, jagged and abrasive. The swagger in his step is familiar. The joint behind his ear is not.

“Oooh, having a domestic?” He asks, almost tauntingly.   
Sirius feels a protective sort of annoyance swirl in his chest as Remus blinks back tears, and composes himself, but he swallows it down.   
Harry lights a cigarette, which seems to have appeared out of nowhere, with a flick of his fingertips, pinching it between his teeth.   
“What’s got you love birds in a tiff?”

“Nothing.” Says Remus, at the same time as Sirius says   
“Dumbledore.”

“Is he sticking his bent—” Harry raises an eyebrow to make the double meaning clear, “—nose in places it doesn’t belong again?”

“We think we could use his help, with figuring out the diary.” Remus replies honestly. It sounds so simple when you put it like that.

Harry groans dramatically “The diary, Jesus fuck. All this fuss over a book with no writing in it.”

“You were the one getting upset over it knowing your name.” Remus points out.

“The details are unimportant.” Harry waves him off. “But no to Dumbledoo. Besides, he couldn’t come here even if he wanted to. I’m pretty sure he’d be within 100 metres of the nursery across the road.”

“I’m not happy about it either, but when it comes to these things, he knows what he’s doing.” Remus, again, sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything.

“Well. I guess it’s decided then.” Harry replies, with a puff of smoke (which sort of makes Sirius’ eyes water, it’s been years since he had one himself), sarcasm heavy in his tone. “Go on. Call Daddy to come and save the day.”

Sirius coughs to hide his desperate laughter. It isn’t fair. It’s not Remus’ fault that he’s like this, that he needs so desperately to believe in a system that doesn’t give him a second thought. It’s not his fault that he needs Dumbledore to be helpful, needs him to be good, just as much as Sirius needs him to be the one to blame.

Remus eyes him suspiciously. “I will.”

“Great! Then he can explain to us how a book that Draco here burned to ash, then flushed down the toilets ended up in my bed. I mean, if he really is this all powerful, all knowing Santa like figure, then surely, he’ll know the answer to that one.” Harry replies cheerfully, as if he’s talking about the football or something (not that Sirius has ever spoken to anyone about the football).

“What?”  
Remus articulates what is probably his only coherent thought.

“Where did Draco get it from?”  
Sirius directs his question at Harry, rather than Draco himself. It’s probably petty to be holding a grudge at a sixteen-year-old, but when it’s a sixteen year old Death Eater, from a family of career Death Eaters who played a big part in destroying everything he once loved, Sirius thinks that it might be fair game.

Draco answers, and his refined, slightly affected voice is painfully familiar. “From my father. It belonged to—”

“We know who it belonged to.”

“Yeah, yeah, Wizard Stalin.” Harry rolls his eyes, and sucks his cigarette right down to the filter, which promptly vanishes with a flick of his wrist. “What? I’m trying out a new metaphor.”

“So why did you have it?” Remus doesn’t quite look at Draco as he asks it, but he’s doing marginally better than Sirius.

“He’s Hitler youth, come on guys, catch up.”, and then he mumbles, more to himself than to the room, “This comparison is getting a bit confusing.”  
There’s something jarring about how blasé Harry has suddenly become about this whole thing. Something unsettling about his suddenly bright persona. Something that feels utterly breakable about it all.

“What does that have to do with Dumbledore?”

“Probably nothing.” Harry pauses, for effect, in a way that makes it seem more like he’s saying his lines in a show, than having a real conversation. He’s never been this performative before, Sirius is sure of that. “He seems a likely suspect for having found it is all. I mean, he looks and acts like he hangs out in public toilets.” He adds, jokingly.

“Smells like it too” Draco adds.

Harry smirks at him, with a strangely soft look in his eyes. A dangerously soft look.

“Call him if you want, but I don’t like or trust him, and I’m not going back with him.” Harry reaches into his pocket, “And seeing as I’m the one who has the book, I sort of think I’m calling the shots.”

Remus narrows his eyes at Harry suspiciously. “I thought you said it was gone.”

Harry never really explained that part. Never explained where or what things being ‘gone’ actually meant. Sirius wonders if he even knows himself.

“And now it’s back. What comes around goes around!”

“Okay.” Remus doesn’t take his eyes off the diary, and Sirius can tell that the cogs are turning in his head, as he figures out a plan. He always was the best at thinking on his feet. He chooses his next words carefully, eyeing Harry like he’s a wild animal. “So if we aren’t calling Dumbledore, then what exactly are we going to do now?

“How am I meant to know? Why’s it such a big fucking deal anyway? Why is everyone so antsy?”  
Harry spins the book in his hand absent mindedly as he speaks. Sirius wonders if he even knows he’s doing it. Sirius wonders what doing it might do.

“It’s a Horcrux.” He blurts out, unable to stop himself.

Draco pales considerably, his brow sort of melding together. Sirius starts to think that maybe the Malfoy family didn’t tell him everything, or maybe You-Know-Who didn’t tell the Malfoy’s everything. Either way, the confused, and slightly afraid, and utterly human, look on Draco’s face makes Sirius hate him a little less.

Harry looks unphased. “Huh?”

“It holds a piece of a soul, a piece of You-Know-Who’s soul.” Remus replies, teacher voice in full swing. It’s much more simplified than Sirius would’ve been able to describe it.

Harry pulls a face. “Ew.”

“We need to destroy it.”

“So then destroy it.”

Sirius half turns to Remus, eyes questioning. They could just do it themselves, Remus knows a spell to do it, in case of emergency. No Dumbledore required.   
But he knows that Remus will want to involve Dumbledore anyway, will want words of support, will want advice. Will want wisdom that Sirius himself can’t provide.

Something sets in Remus’ jaw, and he nods, briskly.   
“Let’s do it then. Quickly.”

Harry nods emphatically.

Remus holds out his hand.   
“Give it to me then.”

Harry nods again.

“Give me the diary, Harry.”

Harry pauses, frozen in place.  
He swallows, a flash of panic in his eyes.   
“I can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 
> 
> Things are suddenly looking a bit tricky....
> 
> Also!! I've started writing a little Umbrella academy thing because my brain will not stop, if anyone wants to check her out!


	40. Crazy setting in

Harry’s fingers are trembling. His jaw is trembling.   
He can’t do it. He can’t.   
He palms another cigarette, flicks it alight, and clamps it between his teeth, inhaling deeply.   
It calms him right down to his bones, right on the first take.   
It’s been a while since nicotine has had that effect on him.   
He just can’t seem to give the book to Remus, which isn’t that strange, when he really thinks about it. It’s just a book after all. They’re the ones being dramatic about it.   
So what if he wants to keep hold of it?   
It’s not hurting anyone, something inside reminds him.   
It’s a book. Books can’t hurt people.   
What’s the saying again? Something about words never hurting you. It isn’t true, Harry knows that better than most, but it’s a book. A blank book at that.  
It’s not hurting anyone.

“Harry. Please can I have it? It’s important.”  
Remus sounds scared, but also delicate. Why is everyone so delicate around him? Why are they always walking on eggshells? It’s exhausting for everyone.

“Stop fucking patronising me.”

It’s a book. A fucking book. And this whole situation is making him feel all jagged and confused and worked up, and it’s not worth it. None of this is worth it. It was never worth it. Never worth uprooting his life, and losing the little he had left, and watching something good slip through his fingers for reasons which are his fault. Someone did that to Aman, but they did it because of him. No one would do it otherwise. Not to someone sweet and kind, and harmless. Harry wishes he was harmless. But he’s not. He’s harmful. He turns everything to shit, everything’s all twisted up and complicated and messy, but all they care about is this stupid fucking book.   
His book?   
It was left in his room. Does that make it his?  
They can have it. They should be able to have it. He just can’t seem to hand it over.   
He shouldn’t have to hand it over, he reminds himself.  
He wonders if this what going crazy feels like. He wonders if he was partway there already.

“Harry. The book.”

He knows. He fucking knows.   
He takes another deep drag, letting his lungs fill right to the brim.   
He’s trying not to panic (and failing). It’s not normal. He should be able to do this. Why can’t he do this? He counts himself into it, figuring that it’s better than nothing. He doesn’t feel like he’s about to explode, like he’s about to overflow with a million complicated wistful emotions. He just feels uneasy, just feels something foreign under his skin, just feels the crazy setting in.   
Do crazy people know they’re going crazy, or do they only realise when it’s too late?   
Maybe he’s the only sane one here. He is the only sane one here. He’s normal, the rest of them are freaks, and he should be able to keep his book.

“I can’t.” He replies, through clenched teeth.   
He wants to. He doesn’t want to. Why should he want to? Why shouldn’t he want to?  
His vision is so blurry at this point that he can’t even see Remus’ face. Can’t even gauge his reaction. He doesn’t imagine that it’s much of anything good.   
It doesn’t matter.  
Hearing voices. That has to be about sign six on the crazy person checklist.   
One last shuddering breath.   
“Help me.”   
It’s not something he should be saying, it’s not something he would be saying. But he isn’t him anymore. He isn’t real anymore. It has everything to do with the book. It has nothing to do with the book. He doesn’t need help. The book is the help he needs.   
It’s too late.

He hears Remus speak, quick and jagged, and black begins to seep in from the corners of his vision.   
He needs help. He needs help.   
But does he deserve it?  
  


* * *

  
“Stupify? Really?” Sirius rolls his eyes.   
Remus knows he’s only lashing out because he’s concerned. Because Harry was having some kind of a psychotic break. One that is hopefully Horcrux related and reversible.

“I panicked. It seemed like the right thing to do.”  
Anything to stop Harry from shaking. He was trembling from top to bottom, like he was chilled right down to his bones, like some twisted charm had been put on him. He was shaking like someone about to self-destruct.

“It’s like de-ja-vu.” Sirius attempts playfully.   
It falls flat.   
Joking doesn’t quite seem right when Harry is unconscious, right in front of them.

“You weren’t doing anything.”

Harry looks younger somehow, crumpled on the floor, glasses crooked and eyes scrunched up, in a mockery of sleep. He looks less mean like this, somehow. Less snide and angry, and more like the kid he should be.   
Remus bends down and easily slips the book from his slack hand, thumbing through the pages because he just can’t help himself. His eyes fall on the inside cover, and he strokes it, gingerly, just next to the spine, afraid of causing more damage.

“There’s a page missing.”

“Is it important?”

“Surely we have to destroy all of it, you know, to get rid of You-Know-Who.”  
He tries to speak with confidence, not that he has any idea what he’s doing (most of the time).

Sirius shrugs, a gesture which feels painfully casual for the context, but is still probably the best he can muster. Remus is surprised, and proud, that he’s doing so well, that he’s even still standing. He’s probably running on fumes at this point, with the number of emotional rollercoasters and sleepless nights that come with Harry Evans.   
Sirius’ eyes keep falling on Harry, then quickly darting away. Remus grimaces, trying not to look, trying not to think about what James might have looked like, broken and empty on the ground. Tries not to think about how dead Harry suddenly looks, his eyes slightly open now, a slit of white showing, his jaw slack.

“Draco.” Remus all but commands. He doesn’t recognise himself sometimes. “Do you know?”

“No I don’t.” Draco replies, and he can’t seem to keep his eyes off Harry either. He’s still pale, well more so than usual, in a way that is more than a little suspicious. Remus files that away for later.

It feels so silent without Harry, so suddenly stilted and awkward.   
It’s probably because Draco is here.

“Help him then.” Remus motions. “Put him on the sofa or something.”  
Anything to not look at Harry on the ground and think about the collective (Draco not included) worst night of their lives.

Draco looks like he’s about to say something, then shrugs, stooping down to sling Harry’s arm over his own, sort of hoisting him up and half dragging him, half carrying him along.

Remus wonders if the day can get any stranger.   
“What are you doing?”

“I’d really rather not break the law and do underage magic, if it’s all the same to you.” Draco bites back, his cheeks tinged slightly pink from the exertion. He’s taller than Harry by a bit, but he’s just as skinny, although on him it translates to willowy, rather than scrawny.

He doesn’t ask for help, and neither of them offer. Instead they just watch him manhandle Harry to the sofa on the other side of the room, settling him down gently on the cushions.

“Destroy it then.” Says Sirius, as if it’s that simple.

“But the page…”

“Let’s destroy the evil book first, then find the evil scrap of paper later.”

Remus shrugs. One problem at a time. “That makes sense.”

Sirius takes the book from him, dropping it on the ground a bit harder than necessary.

“Right. What was the spell again?”  
  


* * *

  
Draco can hear them bickering away in low voices in the background, huddled around the book. He does his best to tune it out.   
He feels bad.   
Maybe not as guilty as he should, all things considered.   
But it is his fault.   
If he’d destroyed it properly, refused it in the first place, told someone sooner rather than trying to fix it himself. If he’d thought it through, been better, then this wouldn’t have happened. This wouldn’t be happening.   
He feels hollow, more so than usual.   
He feels like he’s let people down, and he didn’t know that that was even possible at this point.   
He stares down at Harry, from where he’s perched on the sofa. His glasses are askew, his neck on a strange angle. He stares at Harry, with his long curly hair flopped across his face, and his lips slightly parted, and he feels something strange stirring in his gut, some emotion he can’t quite put his finger on. Some emotion he hasn’t felt before.   
He wonders if he might be going crazy as well.   
Maybe it’s contagious.

He can smell burning, which is either a very good sign (as the Horcrux is being destroyed), or a very bad sign (as Remus, Sirius, or their house is being destroyed), but he can’t take his eyes off Harry’s face for long enough to investigate it.   
He has a very pretty face. That shouldn’t be the word for it. His features aren’t delicate or feminine, his personality doesn’t even fit, abrasive and calloused as he is. In fact, the only thing traditionally pretty about him is his hair, which almost falls in ringlets. But still. When Draco looks at him, he’s overwhelmed by how pretty he is.   
If he said it out loud, he’d probably get socked in the nose, so he keeps it to himself.

He’s not sure how long he stares at Harry. Long enough to make it creepy.   
Long enough that he feels like he may have all of his features memorised.   
Eyelids flutter open, in a way that is very much not Harry.   
Draco is blinded by green. Were Harry’s eyes always that green?   
Draco is aware that he is acting like an insane person, staring someone directly in the eyes as they awake from being unconscious, but he can’t seem to help himself.   
Something like panic flashes in Harry’s green, green eyes, and Draco wonders for a second if he isn’t going to get socked in the nose anyway.

But instead, a lazy grin settles on Harry’s face.   
“Are you going to kiss me better, Prince Charming?”

“What?” Stammers Draco.   
Because Harry is still acting like a crazy person. The book is gone (or going) and Harry is still acting like a crazy person.

“Oh my God, have you pricks never seen Snow White? Disney Classic. You’re missing out.”

“What.” Draco repeats, because only about half of those words meant anything to him.

“Forget it.” Harry grumbles.   
He goes to sit up, then seems to change his mind halfway through, slumping against Draco instead, head resting on his leg.

Draco takes a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” He asks Harry softly, barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t think so.” Harry replies, scrunching up his forehead, and clenching his eyes as tightly shut as he can. “I don’t feel like a person anymore.” He adds, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Draco swallows, heavily. He’s no good at this. No good at thoughts and feelings and emotions and helping people. He can barely even help himself.

“I’m sorry.” He offers, half genuine, half empathetic.

Harry smiles sadly. “It’s no one’s fault but my own.”

Behind them the burning smell persists.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think!  
> Tumblr is (@gooseonthe-loose) come and say hi/ give prompts or whatever!


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